


A Dance with His Ghosts

by TheThingsWeLove



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Redemption, Regret, Slow Burn, lots of serious stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-02 12:09:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 53
Words: 187,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20741108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThingsWeLove/pseuds/TheThingsWeLove
Summary: In modern-ish day Westeros, honor and violence still rule supreme, and kings and lords still hold all the power.  Jorah Mormont, a fugitive from justice in exile, is given a chance to come home, but will he be able to outrun the ghosts of his past before they destroy him?  And will the duty of his mind or the love of his heart win out in the end?





	1. Chapter 1 - Jorah - January 1300 AC

**Author's Note:**

> Think late 1990s or early 2000s for "modern-ish" from a technology standpoint but in a somewhat underdeveloped country. So automatic weapons, cars, airplanes, basic internet, modern (think 2019) clothes, but no ballistic missiles or nukes, and the infrastructure of Westeros and a lot of the world is weak and still very agrarian.
> 
> The story starts in 1300 AC, which I essentially made 1000 years after the setting of the original story, or the equivalent of the middle age. 
> 
> While there are plenty of other characters, this is primarily a Jorah Mormont story with lots of Daenerys thrown in. 
> 
> 17 is the age of "adulthood" under Westorosi law.
> 
> This is going to be long with plenty ripped straight from the TV show or books... obviously I don't own the rights to the characters or large portions of the plot, and this is written for entertainment purposes only.

Chapter 1 - Jorah - January 1300 AC

Jorah sat stiffly in a leather backed chair, silently observing the reception area around him. As he took in the oil portrait of King Aerys next to the photograph of the Lord Hand, Robert Baratheon, he realized that while he was still in Pentos, sitting in this embassy was the closest he’d been to Westeros in years. He had serious misgivings about being here. He had been in Pentos for just six months trying to figure out what to do next with his life when he’d been approached with the offer of this meeting. He was nearly desperate at this point with no better viable options that he could find, so he’d come. He still felt misgivings though. Just then, the large door in front of him swung open. 

“Ser Jorah Mormont! My Gods, the years have not been kind to you! Last time I saw you, you were a rather dashing groom with a beautiful bride on your arms, but look at you now,” a voice tittered from the office door as Jorah stood, buttoned his jacket, having just bought the cheap suit yesterday, and tried to keep an impassive face. Jorah was surprised to see Varys himself. He’d assumed he’d be meeting with one of his many little birds. 

“Thank you for seeing me, my lord,” Jorah managed stiffly as he shook Lord Varys’ offered hand.

“Come in, come in. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something a bit stronger?” Lord Varys asked in a sweet voice. “I have a fine whiskey from the Barrowlands. I hear you have a taste for it. You take it neat, correct?”

Jorah had no doubt that Varys noticed the involuntary clench of his jaw before he said tightly, “No thank you, my lord. I’d prefer get straight to the business at hand.” 

“Straight to the point, you are a true Mormont, even if your father would disagree,” Varys practically giggled. “Sit down. I have a slight thirst and will indulge if you don’t mind waiting a moment.” Varys poured himself a generous glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the nearby table. Jorah couldn’t help but catch its scent as Vary walked closely by him as he made his way behind an impressive, oaken desk, taking a small sip in the process. “Ah, excellent, are you sure you won’t partake?”

Jorah simply clenched his jaw harder and stayed silent. 

“Well, I understand that one of my little birds filled you in on a few of the details, and the fact that you are here means you must be interested,” Varys asked with a raised eyebrow. Jorah nodded. “It’s really very simple. You will be given a position in the Royal Household, specifically in the new Crown Prince’s household as Personal Security Officer to his sister, Princess Daenerys. You will simultaneously be my eyes and ears there, reporting regularly to one of my contacts about who they meet with, where and when they plan to travel, any suspicious activity, and the like. Agree to this, and you can return to Westeros. As long as you are going about your duties as part of the Royal Household, you will be under the King’s protection, and no one will make a move to arrest you anywhere in all of Westeros. And as long as you make your reports to me, I can ensure that any outstanding warrants will be locked away at least in the Crownlands, Stormlands, and Dorne, and there will be no further investigations into your crimes. You will be more or less a free man; you can go where you want within those three regions when you have time off, although you travel at your own risk if you go anywhere else. I certainly wouldn’t recommend going to the North outside of your official duties before you get an official pardon, which I promise you will have eventually if you are faithful to our agreement. We may even find a way to reinstate some portion of your inheritance in due time. And you’ll even be given a small stipend to start paying off your remaining debts to the banks and whomever else you borrowed from. What do you think?.”

This was not quite what Jorah had expected. “Why do you need eyes and ears in the King’s household?” asked Jorah. “Aren’t you the King’s man, his own Master of Intelligence?”

“It is all for the benefit of the realm,” answered Varys smuggly. “Oh, you won’t be doing any harm to anyone and there is minimal risk on your part, Lord Robert believes it is simply important to know how Prince Viserys is adjusting to his new role as Crown Prince, and I quite agree. Especially in light of the recent tragic death of Prince Rheagar and his family, surely even here in Essos, you’ve surmised that things are not perfectly stable in the realm, and you must remember from before you fled that the Hand and the King have not seen eye to eye in decades. The next generation is the key.” Jorah had indeed heard rumors here in Pentos that Rhaeger’s death may not have been as accidental as it seemed, and he certainly remembered the history between Lord Robert and the King.

Robert’s Revolution, it had been called. Lord Robert Baratheon and the Lords Stark, first Brandon and then Eddard, had spearheaded a movement against the Targaryen King that teetered on the edge of violence and ultimately led to some degree of political change and an uneasy peace in Westeros. Jorah had just returned from his second deployment to Slavers Bay and become Lord in his father’s stead when it had begun, and he remembered his father urging him to ask for a transfer to a unit in the North in case civil war broke out. Jorah had taken a temporary transfer to the Wolfswood Regiment under the guise of needing to be closer to home to adjust to his role as the new Lord of Bear Island as a precaution. There had ultimately been small skirmishes between some regional military units, but when it was over, all out war avoided, and Brandon Stark the only High Lord dead, there had been a brief period of optimism that Westeros was entering a new, modern age. 

For the first time in its history, the King no longer had absolute power, as the Lord Hand, with at least fifty-five percent agreement from the other members of the Small Council could overrule the King on most matters. The King now appointed only two members of the Small Council, the Master of Intelligence and the Master of Coin. The rest of the seats were held by the other High Lords or their designees, and a Large Council with members from lower houses had some influence in certain aspects of regional politics. Even male common citizens, aged twenty-one and older, with no criminal record, now voted for one representative on each of the newly established regional councils in the kingdoms of Westeros. Most significantly, the Hand of the King no longer reported to the King at all, and when Robert took the title, there was brief discussion that the position would have a term limit, with the successor being voted on by all the lords and landed knights of Westeros. Over 16 years had passed since then, Robert was still Hand, and there had never been another vote. Robert and Aerys had been engaged in a power struggle ever since, and from what Jorah had heard, Aerys was as mad as ever. Much of the optimism among the common people had faded away although it was true that there had been an increase in economic and educational opportunities for wealthier commoners. Still, Jorah was surprised to learn that the Spider seemed to be siding with Robert, as he’d always thought Varys had been loyal to Aerys during previous power struggles. 

“And why would the King agree to hire me given my history?” Jorah inquired, trying to keep his tone polite.

“Ah, I figured you might have that thought. Well, past scandals and misdeeds aside, you have a fitting resume. You come from an old and noble, if minor, house. You graduated from the Academy near the top of your class, you served with distinction during the Astapori Peacekeeping Operations and were knighted for your valor during the Greyjoy Rebellion... Not to mention your mercenary experience in Essos. Some people might view that as a negative, but I daresay the King will consider it a plus to have a man who once protected a Dothraki War Lord guarding his daughter. Daenerys enjoys studying languages, and you are fluent in several. You will come highly recommended by me, and Lord Baelish will be in complete agreement about your appointment. And the Princess is rather fond of riding. Having a PSO with your riding background is an added plus. What the King knows, he will hold against you, but he’ll have every reason to believe you’ll be entirely beholden to him for protection, and in reality, the King is unaware of some of your more serious crimes. You are not important enough to be of concern to him.”

“How can that be? It was all over the papers. These days, you can surely even find some of those articles on the internet,” argued Jorah. He remembered all too well his shame when the worst parts of his personal life made their way to the front pages of the papers. The tabloids had been especially merciless, even if only fragments of what they wrote were true.

“Most of it was only in the gossip rags with such ridiculous rumors that nobody could believe any of it, even the parts that were true. And you underestimate the power of my office. Let’s just say there is a way to manipulate the internet, and anyone who looks in Westeros now will need to dig quite a bit to find anything interesting aside from what is already common knowledge. Luckily for you as well, most of the Northern papers have not yet digitized their archives at all, nor have the Gold Cloaks digitized details of old warrants. Now, given his friendship with Lord Hightower, Aerys will of course know about the beatings you gave your wife and the eventual divorce-”

“I never hit her,” Jorah interrupted angrily. 

Varys smiled at that. “Pardon me, the alleged beatings you gave Lynesse, although I dare say that poor Glover girl had the worst of it in reality.” _Seven hells, he’d bring Sarra into this?_ Jorah thought. Varys continued, “But the divorce is factual beyond a doubt, yes, and common knowledge amongst the lords and even the commoners of a certain age? And the King certainly knows that shortly after these _alleged_ beatings, you deserted your unit and fled the country in disgrace with your wife rather than allow the investigation to be concluded, immediately thereafter to be disowned by your lord father and stripped of your lordship by Ned Stark. He will see this to his advantage. You are a desperate man in need of the King’s favor with everything to lose, including your head if you fail him. He may have even heard something of the scandal in your unit, that also happened around that same time, but you were never publicly named in the press, and the King cares little for Northern regiments as long as they are posted in the North. If anyone does inquire, you can admit to the unpleasantness with your wife, to the dereliction of your duty and your drinking, and say that is why you fled. Wife beating, while abhorrent, is unfortunately, not too uncommon. King Aerys will not consider that a deal breaker. The desertion, as I said, is common knowledge and puts you in his debt. I would not mention your other crimes though as I think they will be unforgivable, especially to the Princess, and too large of a scandal for the King to ignore.”

“But surely one of his advisors will object… his-” Jorah began, seething with anger now.

“I am one of his advisors,” interrupted Varys. “One of his most trusted at that. Lord Baelish is one of his advisors. None of the other Southron lords aside from Robert know the full truth, although Lord Hightower despises you naturally, but what father wouldn’t. Lord Eddard and the other Northern Lords of your age and older know more of course, but luckily for you, they rarely come South, and Robert will convince his old friend to be quiet on this matter. Ned is far more loyal to Robert than to Aerys, as you surely know. Yes, there is the matter of the warrants, but the details are all housed at Winterfell. The warrant was not shared nationally until you had already fled, and the national version did not detail the actual crimes, it only said that you were wanted for a capital offense. Desertion is such an offense, so there is nothing suspicious there. Now Lord Commander Selmy will be suspicious and will not like you, but he will do as he’s commanded and not question the King.”

Not entirely convinced, Jorah decided to drop the argument. “Very well. What oath will I take? And how long will this arrangement with you need to last before I am truly free?” Jorah was aware that some members of the King’s household took the traditional lifelong vows, but more commonly now, the oaths bound men for only five or ten years. 

“You will take the Old Oath, to the Prince.” Varys noted Jorah’s frown, continuing, “Don’t worry, I promise you, you will be able to be released from those vows once Robert approves your pardon, but such a commitment on your end is the only logical way to convince the King to accept you given your history. I’ll let you know when I no longer need you, but it certainly will not last longer than perhaps four or five years. You’ve spent almost a decade on the run, what’s another half decade? You will have a pardon in writing from Lord Robert for all of your crimes when it is done. But know this,” Varys voice suddenly cold, “once you are in, there is no going back. You may be beholden to the King, but you are even more beholden to me. If you suddenly decide you can’t stomach our arrangement, know that every investigation and scandal will be re-opened, and in public, you will find yourself dismissed from the Prince’s service, no longer under Royal protection, and your warrants will be served immediately. Your crimes at Deepwood Motte and on Bear Island, your dereliction of duty and desertion from your post, the drinking, your serious shortcomings as a husband, all of it will be made public... The Deepwood Motte incident alone means that Ned Stark will call on the North’s antiquated honor bound legal codes and take your head with that damned sword of his like he wanted to in the first place. He’d only consider it a shame he can’t behead you a second time as punishment for desertion. Or perhaps Westeros could send you to Lhazar or Meeren as a token of goodwill. They would be thrilled to have someone to put on trial for the Lazerene Massacre or that incident with the Wise Masters. I hear prisons in that part of the world are even more brutal than those in Westeros, although you’d most likely be executed there as well. ”

Jorah clenched his fists in his lap and tried to calm himself. While he would deny some of these accusations to his death, he knew a good deal of truth was behind most of Varys’ accusations and that he wouldn’t stand a chance in court, not that Ned Stark had any interest in giving him a fair hearing. That was why he’d fled in the first place… _But how does he know about Sarra and what happened with the Lhazareen? _ he thought. _Surely Dacey wouldn’t have told anyone outside of the family, and nobody even knew I was in Lhazar. _ “And if I refuse this offer, will you have me seized now?” was all he could manage in reply.

“Ser Jorah, how could you think so poorly of me? You came here on good faith, I would never give you no choice. Although I do believe your options would be limited if you refuse. You will never set foot in Westeros again, that is a certainty. We both know you cannot go back to Lys or Bravos, and I dare say you would not be welcomed in Slavers Bay. If you stay in Pentos, I assure you, employment will continue to be hard to find. Perhaps you could scrape by as a common laborer until you became too old to work. Or you could go on fighting with your Dothraki friends or join up with some other mercenary group until you are killed in battle, or stabbed in the back, or grow too old or maimed to be of further use to them. And then what? I suppose you could drink yourself to death because who would care for an old, beat up sellsword?” Varys gave a warm smile at that. “I believe your best offer is to work for me, wouldn’t you agree?”

Varys certainly knew his situation too well, although he was relieved to hear there was at least one detail he had missed, as Jorah certainly could not return to the Dothraki. But he was right that Jorah had few possessions, no family, no friends, no home anymore. With a pardon, perhaps he could live out his life someplace in the North, by the sea. With a pardon, he would even have the right to return to Bear Island even if he would never be welcome in Mormont Keep. He was under no illusion that even Aerys or Robert could truly restore his lordship while Lord Stark opposed it, and he knew his father would never forgive him, but he desperately wanted to see the island again. Perhaps his cousin, Dacey, would at least speak to him someday. _I may be a fool to trust this man and an oathbreaker to stoop to spying on those I’m sworn to, but what do I have to lose? I’ve lost all of my honor already, but if I can go home again... I could be content as a simple fisherman on Bear Island, if I could stand the shame of seeing the Islanders who knew me before, or someplace else in the North if not. _ Even someplace like Dorne or the Reach would be preferable to the life he was living. _I just want to go home. _ “I accept the offer, my Lord,” he said.

Varys smiled at that.. “Excellent, I knew I could count on you. I’ll get you on a plane to King’s Landing tomorrow. One of my little birds will give you the details on your way out.” Varys stood and started to show him to the door. “Shall we shake on it?” Varys asked. Jorah took his hand, and then Varys added, “Oh, do keep in mind, you’ll need to mind your manners in the Red Keep. You are known to be a proud man, but you will need to humble yourself for this position. Viserys is known to have a temper, quite like his father. And keep your drinking under control. If you should get yourself sacked, I’ll consider that to be a failure on your part to hold up your end of the bargain.” Then Varys closed the door in his face.


	2. Flight - April 1292 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapters, all Jorah's POV, are in all italics.

**Flight - April 1292 AC**

_ Jorah hung up the phone as cold horror filled him. “Gods, what am I to do?” he’d moaned aloud. Panic clouded his mind as he quickly made another call, a half-baked plan in mind, and then he had rushed from his office back into his chambers where just minutes ago, he had been tangled, naked, in his wife’s sleeping embrace. “Lynesse, you need to get up,” he’d whispered urgently as he pulled out his army duffel, dumped the contents on the floor and began to frantically re-pack it with a mixture of military and civilian items.  _

_ “What are you doing?” Lynesse asked groggily as he flicked on the lights. “What time is it?” _

_ “You need to get up, love. You need to pack some things, just a bag or two, that’s all the time there is. We need to go. I’ve been found out.” _

_ “I don’t understand,” his wife said, sleep still in her voice. She sat up, and the sheets fell away from her naked body. He saw her shiver in the cool night air, and he threw her a robe as he began to fully dress himself as well. _

_ “Wear something warm, it’s chilly out, but you can pack lighter clothes. We need to go, love, tonight. The Gold Cloaks raided the Regiment. They’ll be on their way here on the morning ferry if not earlier.” His wife still looked confused and did not move. “Please, Lynesse. Get up and help me pack. We’ll go to Essos. Perhaps Braavos, there are plenty of jobs there, or we can go to Lys if you’d prefer. I know less of its economy, but you’ll like it there. It’s warm in Lys, even warmer than Oldtown, with a fine city. I’ve set up a ship, but we need to meet it out in the bay soon.” The only consolation of this whole nightmare unfolding around him was that he’d decided at the last minute to catch the final ferry back to Bear Island last night instead of staying at the officers’ quarters in the barracks as he’d originally planned. If he’d stayed, he’d be in handcuffs already. _

_ Lynesse finally got out of bed and began to dress slowly, but then she stopped and asked, “But are you sure? They might not know you were involved. Why must we run away in the middle of the night? And why must I go at all, I’ve done nothing wrong?” _

_ Jorah’s heart froze for a moment at those words. He dropped his bag and bound over to her, taking her face gently in his hands. “They know, Lynesse. One of the sergeants got out of the barracks and called. He said they were asking specifically for me as they’d thought to find me in the barracks and knew directly where to look for all the records. They know what I’ve done. Please, love, come with me. If you don’t want to, I will not force you, but I will not leave without you. If you wish, I will stay and face justice, but you know that means I’ll lose my head.” He kissed her then, frantically, passionately, before looking deep into her eyes. “Lynesse, you will see my head rot on a spike. You will see birds peck out my eyes. You will be a widow. I can stand to die, but I cannot stand to think of you like that. I love you too much. Please, come with me.” _

_ She began to cry then, and sobbed loudly, “You could go to the Night’s Watch, couldn’t you? They still forgive all sins there, do they not?” _

_ Jorah shook his head, trying to shush her and wipe her tears away with his thumbs. “Lynesse, love, you must be quiet, or you’ll wake one of my cousins,” he whispered. “I could only go to the Watch if I could reach Castle Black without being caught which is unlikely, and then I’d be obliged to take the Old Oath, and I could not keep you as my wife or ever see you again.” Nevermind that he could not bear to face his father, he thought. “I would be a slave on the Wall for the rest of my days, and you would be as good as a widow. I will never leave you. I would rather die than lose you in that way. Tell me, if you wish for me to stay, I will stay. But if you want to see me live, if you want to stay my wife, we must go now. We will still have our love, and we’ll build a new life together. Our love is all that matters to me. Nothing else. Please, Lynesse, tell me what you’d have me do.” _

_ She’d agreed then to flee with him, and he’d kissed her again before continuing to throw things into a bag. When he was done, he had to hurry her along as she debated each item, telling her he would buy her new things once in Essos. Last, he’d grabbed his belt holding his sword, handgun and dagger. Only then did he pause again as he stared at Longclaw, the Valaryian steel sword that had been in his family for at least a thousand years. It was worth a small fortune, but for the same reason he could not sell it as he’d try to repay his debts, he could not take it now. He had disgraced himself, his father, and his house in every way, but he could not take the sword with him. It belonged to the Mormonts, and he was not worthy of that name. He would take another sword from the armory on the way to the docks. “I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered, as he left the sword on the bed and took one last look at his Lord’s chamber before slipping out the door. _

_ ___ _

_ He and Lynesse ran softly down the path to the docks. He risked a glance back and saw a light in one of the upper windows, Dacey’s window, he thought. His heart skipped a beat as he realized she was a Gold Cloak herself. Had they called her? No, she would never turn on him like that, he told himself, but he grabbed Lynesse’s bag so that she could better keep up.  _

_ He helped Lynesse into his boat and after rowing out far enough that the noise might not wake those on shore, he made to start the engine. He caught himself beginning to pray to the Old Gods that the engine would start before stopping himself. Why would the Gods help him, sinner that he was? The engine caught on the second try, and he steered the boat out of the harbor with the lights still off. It was pitch black and chilly on the water, and Lynesse began to cry again. As they reached the south west coast, he turned on a flashing lantern and idled the engine. His teeth were chattering now, more from fear and waning adrenaline than from the chill, and he felt a slight pounding in his head, whether from stress or from the whiskeys he’d had the night before, he wasn’t sure, but he put his arms around Lynesse, who never had adjusted to the cold, in an attempt to warm her, and whispered to her, kissing and caressing her cheeks, trying to stop her tears. After a long while, he muttered another prayer to the Old Gods despite it all. If the ship didn’t come soon, they were finished. He couldn’t sail to Essos in this boat, and while he might try to reach the Frozen Shore to make a dangerous land crossing North of the Wall, and find a ship on the east coast of the continent, he knew Lynesse could not survive those conditions. _

_ At long last, he saw a lantern flash in the distance, and he signaled back, revved the engine, and steered to the side of the larger ship. The crew threw down a ladder, and he helped Lynesse up, tossed up the bags, and then climbed up himself. “Welcome aboard,” the captain purred in his Tyroshi accent, “It is so nice to finally meet your lady. You have payment for your passage, I trust?” _

_ “How much?” Jorah has asked warily. Payment had not been mentioned on the phone, and he’d hoped that the man would help due to their previous business association. _

_ “750 dragons, each,” the man said with a smile. _

_ It was an exorbitant rate. He could buy passage for two on a pleasure cruise for nearly the same, and it would wipe out the cash he’d meant to use to start their new life and then some. “Collio, I don’t have that much right now, but I promise you, I will pay you back once-” Jorah began. _

_ “Lord Mormont, surely you know that I am a businessman. I cannot live or pay my men with promises. You pay now, or I throw you into the ocean, as unfortunately, your little boat has already drifted away. Or better yet, I could take you to Slaver’s Bay and make a healthy profit, especially from your lady wife.” He reached out and grabbed Lynesse. _

_ Jorah began to reach for his gun, but five crew members beat him to the draw. He raised his hands slowly. “We have jewelry with us. Will that work? Please just let her go.” _

_ “Very good, let’s see what you have, Mormont,” Collio said. “I’m glad you have come to realize that you are not Lord here.”  _

_ He and Lynesse debated in whispers what to offer. Lynesse had not stopped crying since they’d left the harbor, and she became nearly hysterical when he suggested several of her many jeweled necklaces or earrings. It broke his heart to see her cry, so at last, he had offered up his signet ring along with a small stack of bills, and when Collio said it wasn’t enough, he had handed over the ornate dagger his father had given him when he’d left for the Academy as well. _

_ As they huddled together in a cramped cabin later, Lynesse asked softly, “Why did you do it, Jorah? Why couldn’t you have made your money another way?”  _

_ A thousand angry retorts flashed through Jorah’s mind, but he only whispered in a pained voice, “But surely you know I did it for you, love.” _


	3. Chapter 2 - Daenerys - January 1300 AC

**Chapter 2 - Daenerys - January 1300 AC**

“I don’t understand why I need a PSO, Missi,” Daenerys said to her friend, Missandei, as she helped her let down her hair. “Or why can’t I pick my own? I would choose Grey, you know.” 

Daenerys and Missandei had just returned from her oldest brother’s funeral, and after a week full of funerals, she felt an intense desire to be alone to grieve. Rhaegar had been so much older than her that they have never been close, but she had adored his wife, Elia, and her little niece and nephew. She’d even loved Ser Oswell the most of all of her father’s Kingsguard. Now on the third consecutive day of funerals, she was exhausted. The last thing she wanted was for some stranger to suddenly become her shadow. She knew Viserys’ PSO, Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, slept just next door to the new Crown Prince within his private apartments, and was with her brother most of the time even within the walls of the Red Keep. Viserys took a cruel joy in this relationship, vacillating between belittling the man and using Ser Meryn to carry out his own sadistic fantasies although Daenerys suspected Ser Meryn rather enjoyed that part of his duties as well. Daenerys could not imagine having a similarly cold, hard man as her own shadow. 

“You are nearly grown, Princess, and you’ll be leaving the Red Keep on your own much more often. It is protocol that you now have a personal guard. It will be good to have someone specifically for you especially once we start at university when you’ll be outside the walls every day. It’ll give you freedom! And Grey is an Unsullied, he can guard the Red Keep but not serve as a personal security officer, you know that,” her friend responded. “Has His Grace or Viserys told you who it will be? Will it be one of the Kingsguard or someone else?”

“Viserys says Father has asked Lord Varys to vet candidates and make the decision. Father doesn’t want to spare any Kingsguard just now, especially as he needs to replace Ser Oswell, so it will be someone new,” Daenerys replied. “He will take his oath to Viserys, though, not me. What if he is like Ser Meryn?” _What if he is even crueler? _she didn’t dare to add aloud.

Missi sighed. “Even if he is sworn to Viserys, his responsibility is to protect you. I’m sure any man qualified for the position will take his duties seriously, Princess. You are the King’s daughter. This man will not be your brother and can’t treat you like Viserys does. If he displeases you, _you_ can have _him_ punished. And you can always tell him to stand guard outside the door when you are inside your personal apartments. You are a lady after all. You can tell him that you’re on your moonsblood and need privacy whenever you wish, that will send him fleeing!” Both girls giggled at that.

Daenerys’ whole world had changed in the last few weeks. She had been so looking forward to finishing her final year of secondary school and starting at the University of King’s Landing in the Fall. For the first time, she would have some freedom to interact with the common people and to attend an actual school with classmates. She had always had the best private tutors, but the idea of extending her social circle beyond her handmaids and the few high born children whom she had been allowed to interact with from time to time thrilled her. Missi was her only friend, and Irri too she supposed, even though she’d known each for only a few months, and they had been chosen for her and were technically servants. She had thought her previous handmaids her friends as well, although they were much older, but they rotated through her life every few years, and this was the first time her handmaids had been close to her own age. Nonetheless, Missi told her often that there was a whole different world beyond that of High Lords and Ladies, and she was excited to see it. 

Then Rhaeger and his whole family had died in an accident, she had become second in line to the throne, and security had been tightened immensely. Her father nearly changed his mind about allowing her to attend UKL but relented by insisting that she must have a PSO assigned to guard her at all times. To make matters worse, Viserys cruelty seemed to have increased since his own elevation to Crown Prince.

“Princess, if you’d like, I can stay with you tonight and be here tomorrow when you meet him,” Missandei said gently.

Daenerys’ heart melted at her friend's kindness. “But it’s to be your day off! I thought you and Grey were going to a movie later. I don’t want you to cancel that. And you said Grey was off duty tomorrow too, so you planned to spend it with him.”

“I’ll switch days with Irri and take some time off next week instead. Grey will understand. Perhaps we could all watch a movie here tonight? And since he’s off duty tomorrow, I can have him come here in the morning as well. He can scare your new PSO.”

  
Daenerys giggled at the thought. Grey had a slight build, but an always serious face, and even Ser Meryn seemed to respect Grey as an elected officer of the Unsullied. The Unsullied were unlike any other unit in the Westerosi Army. All members of the unit came from the colonies in the Summer Isles and Nath. The selection process was thought to be the hardest of any unit in Westeros with only a small fraction of the boys who applied ever earning the spiked helmet. They were known for being the most disciplined troops in the world and by tradition, still received extensive hand to hand training. Despite not being full Westorosi citizens, their obedience and loyalty was second to none, perhaps because they and their immediate families were granted citizenship once they completed fifteen years of faithful service or fell in battle, whichever came first. In fact, the very motto of the regiment, _Valar Morghulis_, or All Men Must Die, was said to perfectly represent the bravery of its soldiers. Despite the hardship of his training and his stern demeanor when in uniform, Daenerys had found Grey to be a warm and funny guy when off duty. Her new PSO didn’t need to know that though. “That would be great. Tell him to wear his Unsullied t-shirt.” 


	4. Chapter 3 - Jorah - January 1300 AC

**Chapter 3 - Jorah - January 1300 AC**

Forty-eight hours later, Jorah once again found himself sitting stiffly in a reception room, wearing another new suit, although this one was of exquisite material and had the finest tailoring of any suit that he had ever worn. He realized his fists were clenched with such tension that his nails were nearly breaking his skin and willed himself to be calm.  _ You charged through the breach and took out a machine gunner’s nest at Pyke, you fool. You led patrols on the Rhoyne and fought with the fiercest warlord in the world on the Dothraki Sea. How hard can this be?  _ He had heard little of the Prince and even less of the Princess, but part of him hoped they took after their father. It would ease his guilt if he disliked them.

He had been ill at ease ever since his meeting with Varys, but he told himself again and again that he had no love for the Mad King, and there could be little harm in passing on some palace gossip.  _ It is the ghost of my honor that gives me pause,  _ he realized.  _ I have been lost to honor for years, but still I take no pride in stooping to spy in order to slink back home. But I can do my duty to guard the Princess and still keep my bargain with Varys at the same time, can I not? He only wants them watched, not harmed, after all.  _

He knew also that he must be tired, as the last few days had been a whirlwind. After leaving the embassy with further instructions, he had quickly returned to the small room he rented to pack. He decided to leave behind most of his Dothraki garb and other well-worn clothes and simply threw some of his slightly newer attire into his duffel. He found it far harder to decide which books to pack. Books, although mostly used paperbacks, had been the one luxury he’d still allowed himself to buy after he’d cut back his drinking, his other guilty pleasure during the earlier years of his exile. Books couldn’t make him forget like whiskey, but at least he could lose himself in another world for a few hours at a time. Ultimately, he paired his stack down to a small enough bundle to fit in his backpack next to his old, battered laptop, a gift of plunder from the Dothraki warlord he had recently served. Then, after a short hunt through dark, back alley pubs, he’d found an old contact who dealt in arms, and after some brief haggling, he’d sold both his rifle and pistol. He knew he’d been ripped off, but he didn’t particularly care. 

He threw in his battered but well sharpened sword as well, wondering not for the first time if the day would ever come in this modern world when men put aside such antiquated weapons. When he’d first come to Essos, he’d been somewhat surprised to see that blades were as prevalent there as they were in Westeros given that guns were much more accessible in Essos, but it seemed that men in all parts of the world still found a weapon that required a great deal of strength and skill preferable to a gun when it came to disputes of honor or pride. They also still seemed to be the preferred method of crowd control… and executions, not to mention a much cheaper weapon for commoners. 

Then, he used the money to settle his accounts with his landlord and splurged on a finer supper than he’d had on his own in years, although he found he had little appetite once it was served. He was tempted to buy himself one pint of ale and a small whiskey to toast the end of his time in Essos but stopped himself, leaving behind a generous tip instead, before retiring to try to sleep on his sagging cot in his cramped room for one final night. However, he found his mind wandered and once sleep finally came, he was haunted by nightmares even more ferociously than usual. Well before he had to, he gave up on sleep, re-dressed in his now wrinkled suit, grabbed his duffel and backpack, and walked out of the room without a second look

As promised, a car picked him up shortly after dawn and drove him to the airport where he was hurried onto a private jet. He managed to doze off briefly over the Narrow Sea before rousing himself to watch the descent into King’s Landing. As he stepped off the plane, back in his native land at last although still far from his true home, he briefly feared that he was walking into a trap, fully expecting the national police, the Gold Cloaks, to surround him at any moment, but instead, he was met by another car, this one a sleek luxury vehicle. The driver barely spoke a word to him as he was driven straight to a tailor shop where he was measured and fitted for several fine suits and shirts as well as for a ceremonial uniform before being taken to a hotel. 

“Don’t leave the hotel until I come back in the morning. I’ll be here at 7am. Wear one of the news suits. You can toss those rags that you’re wearing now. And get a haircut. There’s a barber shop off of the lobby,” the driver said.

“Shall I shave too?” Jorah asked with a slightly bitter tone although he realized appearance would matter in his new position.  _ I’m not some mercenary sleeping rough in the wilderness anymore. I’ll be amongst the High Lords and must remember my courtly manners. _ He’d grown used to the short, scruffy beard that covered his face though. Besides, it mostly covered the nasty scar on his cheek.

“You’re not a soldier, so it makes no matter. A trim would suffice. Just make sure you bathe, wash Essos off of you if you can,” the driver said scornfully. “You can eat in the lobby restaurant and charge it to the room. Speak to no one if you can help it.” Then the driver was gone. 

_ So I am home but now a prisoner _ , Jorah reflected. He had hoped to walk some of the city streets as he’d barely seen anything besides the airport and tailor shop, but he settled for a visit to the barber and a workout in the hotel gym before showering, eating, and trying to sleep. 

Once again, nightmares haunted him and once again, he gave up on sleep before too long. He showered again, combed his hair carefully, dressed and ate as slowly as he could but still had hours to kill before his pickup. As he flipped through the channels on the television, his mind briefly wandered to memories of the last time he’d been in King’s Landing. He turned up the volume on the television and forced his mind to focus on the rerun of the rugby match before him.  _ I’m close enough to home to at least get this _ , he thought. In Essos, he could never find any sports but football on TV. Thus, he managed to keep his past at bay until 7am.

Upon arriving at the Red Keep, he was escorted to a waiting room where he waited anxiously for what seemed like a long while, and at last, he was called to the office of Lord Commander Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, who gave him a stern look and left him standing at attention as he spoke to him. “Ser Jorah, I do not know how you’ve managed to gain this position, but know that I will be watching you carefully. I never learned exactly what you did, but disgraceful as it was, you aren’t the first Lord to lay hands on his lady wife, Hightower though she was, so that leads me to believe that you mistreated her far more than reported that you’d flee. Either way, I know you are a deserter, and I know I don’t trust you. If it were up to me, you’d be rotting in a grave, not serving the King, but here you are.” Selmy fixed him with a hard look, but Jorah did not flinch. He had not expected a warm welcome from the honorable Barristan the Bold. 

After a short pause, he told Jorah to sit, and then Selmy continued, “Shortly, you will make your vows to the Crown Prince. Lord Varys tells me you wish to take the Old Oath?” He looked to Jorah for confirmation, and Jorah replied in the affirmative. 

“Very well, it is so rare these days that I wanted to make sure. Your oath binds you for life but you may be dismissed at any time with punishment should you displease the Prince or the Princess. Mind me when I say, your vows are to the Prince, but your duty is to the Princess. You will be briefed further on standard operating procedures after your oath, but it is my duty to ensure that you know what you are getting into now. You will have one weekend each month and one additional week each year off duty, at which time, you can go where you please and more or less do as you’d like, but keep in mind that you still represent the Royal Family. Otherwise, you are to consider yourself on duty or on call at all times. If she is outside of the walls of the Red Keep, you will be nearby and fully alert. Within the Keep, there is certainly more leeway, but you should know where she is and keep these on you.” Selmy paused to hand him a cell phone and radio. “Her code name is  _ Khaleesi _ . Use only that name when on the air. You will, of course, have quarters next to the Princess’s private chambers in her apartments, and you are welcome to use the rest of her apartments as she’ll allow and the grounds of the Keep as well. She may invite you to eat with her; otherwise, you can use the mess hall. However, you will  _ never _ enter the Princess’s private chambers without direct permission from her unless you feel that she is in immediate danger, is that understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jorah replied.

Selmy fixed Jorah with another look. “Am I correct in saying that you are divorced?” Jorah nodded, thinking  _ Why in seven hells does everyone keep bringing that up?  _ “Very well, all guests must be approved by the Princess or the Prince, and as an unmarried man, women are not allowed in your private quarters. As I’ve said, what you do on your time off when away from the Keep is your business, but do nothing to bring dishonor to the household you serve. And I swear to the Seven, if I hear of you treating a woman roughly- noble, commoner or even whore- I will cut off your hand myself, is  _ that  _ understood?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jorah said in an almost calm voice as he choked back rage.

“You will wear a black suit and tie on most days with a Targaryen badge, and as a member of a noble house, you may wear your signet ring,” Selmy paused to glance at Jorah’s naked hand. “That is if you haven’t lost yours. I believe you have been stripped of your military medals, so you may not wear any of those except the medal of your knighthood on formal occasions, as that, unfortunately, cannot be stripped. Unless you lost that as well... Assuming you have no sword, you will be given one. You will wear a full sword belt and concealed handgun when in your ceremonial uniform and a handgun and dagger at all other times. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jorah answered evenly. 

“Very well then, it is time for you to change and prepare to take your oath,” Selmy said as he stood and led Jorah out of the office.


	5. Lust - October 1289 AC

**Lust - October 1289 AC**

_ Jorah held his head high as he rode in full dress uniform on a shining black stallion towards the Red Keep in King’s Landing during the victory parade at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. His regiment had seen heavy action over the three month campaign. His company was at the vanguard of the decisive, final assault at Pyke, and so they had the honor of leading the parade, and he, as their captain, had the honor of leading them.  _

_ He was not yet thirty and in the prime of his life, and at the end of the parade, he was to be knighted in the throne room of the Keep for valor in battle. The official citation said he was first through the breach, and that he’d shown extraordinary valor and complete disregard for his own life by rallying his men and single handedly taking out a machine gun nest just inside the walls, taking several wounds in the process. In reality, when the artillery had finally knocked a hole in the fortress walls, a corporal, an immigrant from Myr, had run screaming towards the breach first as the rest of the company huddled pinned down behind rubble. It was only thus inspired that Jorah had risen and followed after him, yelling for the rest of the men to follow. It was true that Jorah had taken out the machine gun nest, taking a few minor wounds in the process, but not before it had ripped the corporal to pieces and killed or maimed ten of the men who’d followed their captain. _

_ Jorah had told his regimental commander about the mistake on the citation and said perhaps the corporal should receive the honor posthumously instead, but the colonel had only laughed, and barked, “Do you want to make your father proud or not, Mormont?” Even now, there were few things that Jorah had wanted more, so he had kept his mouth shut when the incorrect version of the story was repeated to him by generals and reporters. He told himself that even if he hadn’t been first, he still was a war hero after all. There was no harm in taking some credit for that, and as an officer, he’d accept the knighthood on behalf of his men. _

_ Later, as he’d knelt before the Crown Prince Rhaegar and heard him charge him to be brave and just, to defend the young and innocent, and to protect all women, he felt it was the proudest moment of his life. Even the conspicuous absence of the King did nothing to dampen his spirits. Ned Stark had given him a warm handshake in congratulations, as did several other High Lords. When his father had told him he’d done well and shook his hand, he had thought the day could get no better. Then he’d seen her. _

_ “Who is that? Do you know her name?” he’d asked several of his fellow officers as they prepared for the celebratory ball. Finally, a young lieutenant from Oldtown responded, “She’s Lord Hightower’s youngest daughter, Lynesse. Will you ask her for the first dance, Captain?” He determined then and there that he would. It was a tradition carried over from the old jousting days that at the ball in honor of a man’s knighting, he was to select one Lady for the first dance, as his Queen of Love and Beauty. A few other officers chuckled and asked if she wasn’t a little young. She was 17, they told him, and a Hightower at that. Knight or not, they said, he was a bit too lowly for her and perhaps a bit too old. But they did not dissuade him.  _

_ Jorah felt nearly brave when he approached her. He told himself it was because he was equipped with a new title, although he would not deny that the many celebratory drinks that had been plied on him by various high ranking officers and even the Lord Hand, Robert Baratheon, may have helped. However, when he finally stood before her, he began to have second thoughts. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. What could she see in him? What would he do if she rejected him in front of everyone? He was hugely relieved when she accepted the laurel and dance with a smile. _

_ After the first dance, Jorah was obliged to speak to several High Lords and generals, and he feared Lynesse would be lost to him, especially after she’d now seen how poor of a dancer he was. However, when he approached her later and asked if he might dance with her again, she’d once again smiled and instantly agreed. They spent much of the rest of the evening together, and as the ball wrapped up, he’d whispered to her that he and some of his fellow officers were going to a nearby pub if she’d like to join them. She’d grinned mischievously and said she’d come as soon as she could escape her father at the hotel where she was staying. _

_ As Jorah got his third round at the pub, and she still had not showed up, he supposed he was a fool after all, but just when he had given up hope, she came up behind him and wrapped him in a hug. She’d changed into more casual clothes, a short skirt and a revealing top, and dragged him to the dance floor where a far less formal type of dancing was taking place. He’d nearly moaned aloud when she’d turned around and pressed her bottom firmly into his groin, as she swayed gracefully to the beat of the music. Before long, they were kissing passionately in a dark corner, his hands wandering over her curves. Hours later, as the pub closed, he’d asked if he might see her again as he’d tried to hail her a cab, but she’d blinked her beautiful eyes at him, saying she was scared to be alone in a strange city at night and begged him to escort her safely back to her hotel.  _

_ He’d seen her to the lobby, at which point, he’d kissed her gently and asked if he might have her number, but she’d taken his hand and led him up to her room. The whole way up, he’d carried out an argument with himself in his alcohol addled mind. He was entirely unsuited for her. He was over a decade her elder, from such a poor, small house, and a widower to boot. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he was nothing in comparison, surely this was all a tease. But he knew plenty of Lords far older than he with younger wives, and she seemed to want him, to desire him even. Once inside her room, he’d stood as chivalrously as he could, not wanting to presume anything, but then she was unbuttoning his uniform tunic and pulling off his shirt and her lips were on his, so soft and so sweet, and her hands were on his bare chest, and she did not seem repulsed at all by his hair or his scars, and she was pulling off her own top, his hands unable to resist the sight before him, and then she was undoing his fly and her soft hands were around his hard length and then she guided his hand up her short skirt to feel her and, oh Gods, she was so wet with desire for him. “I have no protection,” he’d remembered mumbling as she’d pulled him into her bed, but she said it made no matter as she guided him into her wet heat and he was lost to her, he could deny her nothing.  _

_ The next morning, he’d woken up sober, with Lynesse still in his arms. He feared she’d have regrets or be repulsed by him without the effects of alcohol, but she had simply kissed him and thrown her leg over him. When her thigh brushed his morning hardness, she’d raised an eyebrow, and soon, they were making sweet, passionate love again.  _

_ Although he’d meant to see some of the sites of the capital, on this, his first visit to King’s Landing, the next several days, Jorah had spent every moment he could with Lynesse, mainly in her bed or in dark corners of clubs or pubs. He was sure he was in love. He’d never known such bliss and never imagined that any woman, let alone a high born Lady, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, would desire him, would love him so fervently in return.  _

_ He knew she would be leaving soon to return home, and his regiment was due to leave the capital as well, and so on their last night together, already a bit drunk, he’d left her room under the pretense of buying champagne and returned with a bottle and also with the ring he’d bought earlier in the day. She had been making rather obvious hints that she wished for him to propose, but as he dropped to one knee before her, he was suddenly filled with doubts about his own worthiness and feared that she would reject him. “Lynesse,” he’d declared in a voice that was far more confident than he felt, “I have been happier loving you these past days than at any other time that I can recall. Will you honor me by being my lady wife so that I may love you for the rest of my life?” Then he’d shown her the ring, which he had picked with careful consideration. It had cost much more than he’d planned, but he told himself it was worth it for her. “It’s a trifling thing, my love,” he’d added to be safe, “hardly fitting for a beauty such as yourself, but if you accept it tonight, I promise you can pick out a more fitting ring, anything you’d like, when we are next together.”  _

_ She’d squealed in delight, declaring, “Yes, yes! I will be your lady wife. Oh, Jorah, there is an exquisite jewelry in Oldtown, and I have seen the most perfect ring there. I will show it to you when you get there.” He thought perhaps he should be insulted, but the most beautiful woman in the world had agreed to be his wife, so he simply stood, lifted her in his arms and kissed her before carrying her to the bed. _


	6. Chapter 4 - Daenerys - January 1300 AC

**Chapter 4 - Daenerys - January 1300 AC**

Daenerys sat timidly beside her brother in the grand receiving room between their apartments. Viserys preened like a peacock in his ceremonial attire, a thin crown perched upon his head. Missendai had helped her pick out the soft violet gown that she wore, which Missendai told her brought out her eyes, and had done her long, silvery blonde hair in a loose and flowing style. She told her she looked beautiful and regal, but Daenerys felt too much trepidation to believe it. She had dreamt of Rhaegar last night, and her niece, Rhaenys. He had been so much older than her, but he had always been kind, and her niece had loved her. She missed them dreadfully. In her dreams, Viserys was her new guard, and he had laughed as Rhaegar died.

The door swung open and the herald proclaimed, “Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.” Daenerys watched carefully as a tall, powerfully built man strode into the room, wearing the ceremonial black tunic, trousers, cape and boots of those sworn to House Targaryen. He had a weather worn face, with dark hair, thinning around the edges with just a speckling of gray, and a short, scruffy beard covered his sharply defined cheeks and jaw. He must have been at least 40. Daenerys thought his face looked hard, and she noticed an ugly scar, not entirely covered by the beard, on his left cheek, and another on his neck. 

He did not so much as give her a glance as he approached her brother, drew his sword, knelt and bowed his head humbly, and laid the sword at her brother’s feet. His hands were large and rough looking, and she saw that course dark hair covered his knuckles. “My sword is yours, Your Grace. I vow to serve you, to obey you, to die for you if need be.” His voice was deep and gravelly and strong, and he spoke with a slight brogue that she had not heard before. When he finished, he raised his head just slightly to look at the Prince. Daenerys was shocked that he made no statement of his term of service. She had never seen a man take the Old Oath in any ceremony she’d attended with her father or brother. Was it a mistake, did he not know the proper words? But no, she saw Ser Barristan Selmy did not seem alarmed, nor did her brother.

“Ser Jorah, I accept you into my service,” her brother responded, his voice high pitched and whining in comparison. He motioned lazily towards Daenerys, and the knight stole a quick glance at her but did not meet her eyes. “This is my sister, Princess Daenerys, whom you will serve and protect for me. I hope you will carry out your duties well and thus redeem yourself. If you do anything to displease her or me, you shall face the wrath of the dragon.” Viserys stood up, and the man bowed his head respectfully again. Seemingly intentionally forgoing the traditional “arise,” her brother looked at her with a smirk and pinched her arm hard as he passed whispering, “You’ve got a disgraced old knight to watch after you now, Dany.”

_ What does he mean, disgraced? _ she wondered, before turning her attention to Ser Jorah, who had not moved from his knee and still kept his eyes down. “Arise, Ser,” she said. Only then did he look up and meet her eyes. She saw that his were a deep blue, and while his face had looked hard just a moment ago, she saw a gentleness in his eyes as his gaze met hers.

“Thank you, Princess,” he said softly, standing and sheathing his sword before resting one hand on the pommel and again lowering his gaze respectfully. Daenerys did not know what she was expected to do next. 

Lord Commander Selmy stepped forward then and said, not unkindly, “Princess, I will show Ser Jorah to his room and brief him on a few other matters and have him change. After that, perhaps you will allow him to join you for lunch so that he can address any questions or concerns that you may have. If you have further need of me as you adjust to this new role, send for me at any time.”

“Certainly, Ser Barristan.” Turning back to Ser Jorah, she said, “I plan to have sandwiches with a few of my friends. We have roast beef and turkey. Is that alright with you?”

She saw a brief look of surprise pass through his eyes before he lowered them, replying in a gruff voice, “Of course, Princess. Whatever you are having is fine.” 

“Well then, I shall see you shortly, Ser.” With another slight bow, Ser Jorah followed Ser Barristan from the room.  _ This man is no Ser Meryn. There is no cruelty in his eyes. But why did Viserys say he is disgraced? _

_______

Back in her apartments, she changed into jeans and a comfortable shirt before joining Missandei and Grey in her living area. Missandei was making sandwiches and Grey was already eating as she walked in, but both stopped what they were doing and stood when she entered. “Well?” her friend asked. “How was it? Who is he?”

Daenerys shushed them as they heard Ser Barristan down the hall explaining something to Ser Jorah before whispering in response, “I don’t know. He took the Old Oath, but Viserys says he is disgraced, and he looks older than most of the other guards, but he seems kinder than Ser Meryn. And Viserys dishonored him by threatening him during his oath and leaving the room without even giving him leave to rise.” Both of her friends raised their eyebrows at that.

“Does he have a name, Princess?” asked Missandei, also in a whisper, and Daenerys noticed Grey’s normally impassive face break into a smile. 

“Oh, of course, it is Ser Jorah Mormont, I think they said he is from Bear Island. I can’t remember where that is exactly.” Daenerys’ forehead crinkled in concentration as she tried to remember her geography.

“It’s in the far North,” volunteered Missandei, always the better pupil. 

“That explains the way he talks, but why would my father choose a Northman to guard me? He and Viserys always say the region is full of traitors. I can’t think of a single other guard in the Keep from the North,” Daenerys worried.

“I heard men from the North are humorless, cold, and hard,” chimed in Grey. “They have to be to survive the winters.”

Missandei slapped his shoulder at that, saying, “Grey, that’s great coming from you, of the stoic Unsullied. We can ask him why he is here when he joins us. Are we giving him a chance, Princess, or shall Grey scare him off?” 

Daenerys considered the question for a minute before saying, “Yes, we’ll give him a chance. Now who wants some fruit or a drink with their sandwich?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is very much a mix of book and show, including looks. Picture Jorah with dark hair, relatively hairy, big and brawny, not as ugly as described in the books but also not as handsome as Iain Glen because come on, who could resist that? However, the voice, eyes, cheekbones, etc, are all Show!Jorah.


	7. Chapter 5 - Jorah -  January 1300 AC

**Chapter 5 - Jorah - January 1300 AC**

Changed back into his suit, but now with a gun on one hip and a dagger and radio on the other, Jorah paused at the entrance to the open living area and observed the Princess eating with a young woman and man. Viserys seemed even worse than he’d expected, but he wasn’t sure what to think of his sister just yet. The pictures he’d looked up on his computer several nights ago did her no justice, and he realized they were well out of date, as she couldn’t have been more than twelve in the most recent one he’d seen.  _ Gods, she is beautiful _ , he thought before quickly scolding himself for allowing his mind to wander thus. He cleared his throat as he stepped into the room, and bowed towards Daenerys. “Princess,” he greeted her.  _ I can barely recall my courtly niceties. Should I be bowing to her friends as well?  _ He wondered.  _ _ A quick glance made him think they were not nobles, but he felt it better to be safe than sorry and slightly inclined his head towards them as well. “My Lord, my Lady,” he added.

The dark haired girl laughed, and the young man’s lips twitched upwards before Daenrys intervened, “Ser Jorah, these are my friends, Missandei and Torgo Nudho, called Grey. Missi and Grey, this is Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, my new personal security officer. Grey is a captain of the Unsullied, and Missi serves as my handmaid. Are your quarters to your liking, Ser? Is there anything lacking?”

Jorah was as surprised by this question as by her question about his lunch preference. In his experience, the High Lords did not much care for the comfort of those who served them. He himself had always put his own men’s needs above his own when he’d been an officer, and he was certainly cognizant of his servants’ needs when he’d been a Lord, but he hadn’t thought too much for their comforts. He had expected far less from royalty, especially from the daughter of the Mad King. “The room is very suitable, thank you, Princess. It meets all of my needs,” he replied. In reality, after years of sleeping rough in Essos, he couldn’t imagine anything more luxurious. He thought it was far finer, if smaller, than his own Lord’s chamber on Bear Island although it had been so long since he’d been in Mormont Keep that he didn’t trust his memory. When the Princess made no response but to smile, he continued to stand stiffly, not sure what to do next, his hands clenched at his side to prevent himself from nervously rubbing his chin as he was prone to doing when ill at east. 

Daenerys seemed to notice his discomfort and motioned to the counter behind them, stacked high with sandwiches and other foods, saying, “Help yourself, Ser Jorah, and have a seat. If you’re to live here, you should feel at home in these rooms.” She waited until he made himself a plate and sat, albeit still stiffly, before asking timidly, “If you don’t mind, Ser, I’d like to know more about you. I understand that Bear Island is in the North, although I’ve never been. What brings you into my brother’s service? Were you in the army?”

Jorah had thought of how he might answer this line of questioning but had not come up with a satisfactory plan aside from that which had been put forth by Varys, which was to be as vague as possible and to only admit to specifics if directly asked. He hesitated for a brief moment before beginning, “Aye, Princess, Bear Island is in the North in the Bay of Ice. It is the seat of House Mormont. I was in the army as a young man, as most of the men in my family have been for generations, but I spent much of the last decade in Essos where I had some experience with security. I was approached in Pentos about this position and thought it seemed a good fit.” He stopped there, unsure of how to proceed.

Missandei and Grey exchanged a glance, and Daenerys looked on expectantly. When he said no more, she prodded, “What regiment were you in? And why did you go to Essos if not for the army? Do you have an older brother on Bear Island who will be Lord after your father, or is your uncle Lord? Do you have a wife or children? I would like to meet them if so.”

Jorah sighed inwardly and looked down at the table.  _ I’d best be as honest as I can, or I’ll never be able to keep my story straight in the future.  _ Lifting his head again, he began, “I served initially with the 1st Reach Cavalry before being transferred to the Wolfswood Infantry Regiment in order to be closer to home. My father was Lord of Bear Island. I- I am my father’s only son, and was Lord after him.” He could feel a blush rising on his face as he saw Daenerys’ eyes widen, and he continued quickly. “I dishonored my father as well as my regiment. I left for Essos immediately after and was stripped of my lordship. My aunt rules in my stead now. I am not married.” 

“But what did you do?” the Princess asked, her brow knit in concern.

Deciding to stick with Varys’ plan, Jorah could no longer maintain eye contact, looking at his plate now, and his voice came out gruff when he replied, “It shames me to speak of it. I drank too much and neglected my duties as a husband and an officer, and dishonored the Mormont name and the North as a result. I was likely to be court martialed and imprisoned, so I fled. In Essos, I served as a mercenary and bodyguard in various countries before being offered this chance to return to Westeros.” 

“You are a deserter,” Grey said bluntly and with disdain. “In the Unsullied, deserters are shot.” 

Daenerys made a move to hush him, but looking up and again meeting Daenerys’ eyes, Jorah responded first, his voice hoarse. “Yes, I am, and in Northern regiments the punishment is beheading. It is one of my many regrets. I was told I could perhaps earn redemption by serving the King and his family well. I am most beholden to you, Princess, for allowing me this second chance. I swear to you, I will not fail in my duties again.”

Grey started to respond but Daenerys interrupted him, “And your father? He died before this happened?” 

“No Princess, he was a colonel in the Night’s Watch when he decided to take the Old Oath. He abdicated his lordship in favor of me when I was 22 and is now Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He lived to see my shame.” 

“And what of your mother?” Daenerys pressed.

“No, Princess. My mother died when I was young.”

She had held his gaze for a moment and seemed to consider his words before giving him a kind smile. “Mine too, when I was just a baby. But enough of that,” she said. “How old are you, Ser?”

“Forty, Princess,” he replied, not bothering to mention that this very day was his Name Day. He hadn’t celebrated it since he’d left Westeros.

“I am pleased to hear you were in the cavalry before, Ser, you must have ridden often for ceremonial duties. You must come riding with me soon. I will ensure that you can have any horse of your choosing.”

“It would be my pleasure, Princess.”

They spent the next hour chatting pleasantly enough, and Jorah was grateful that no more questions were asked about his disgrace. Daenerys told him about her typical day and schedule, and about her excitement about starting school at KLU in September. He learned Missandei would attend as well and would be studying languages and that Daenerys wanted to study literature and languages but her father insisted that she focus on political science. As Daenerys opened up, and Missandei laughed easily with her, Jorah began to feel more at ease, and spoke more as well, although he volunteered few personal details as he regaled them with tales of Essos. Daenerys seemed particularly enraptured by his stories of his time on the Dothraki Sea and in the Bone Mountains by Vaes Dothrak, and laughed when she told him that he was called the Andal as the Dothraki were unused to men of his complexion. He told her of the beauty of the landscapes, the colors of the clothing, and the scents of the spices in the traders’ markets, leaving out the dark details of the violence and savagery which painted those memories red for him. He was surprised to learn that she had seen little of Westeros aside from certain parts of King’s Landing and Dragonstone and the insides of several other castles in the South. He had always assumed that a Princess would have been more well-traveled. 

Later, after Missandei and Grey left, Daenerys told Jorah she wanted to give him a tour of the rest of the Red Keep. She showed him the gym and library and was pleased to learn that he was an avid reader. Then she showed him the gardens, and pointed out her favorite flowers. She said they would avoid areas that the King frequented, and while they passed an occasional servant or soldier and a handful of nobles of the court, it was mostly just the two of them, Jorah walking a respectful step behind by her side. Next, she showed him to the stables, and she practically glowed as she talked about her horses before pointing out the ones that he could choose from for himself. It was only when they came upon Viserys, sparring in boxing gloves with a soldier in the courtyard by her apartments, that Daenerys tensed. She made to turn and walk back the other direction when he saw them.

“Dany,” he yelled. “Sister, where are you going? How is your new dog,” he said, looking at Jorah. “Or should I say bear?” he added with a mirthful laugh. 

Jorah bowed his head towards the future king and kept his mouth shut. “I was just showing Ser Jorah the grounds,” Daenerys said in a timid voice.

“Well, watch me spar for a while, sister. Perhaps your bear would like to try me, seeing as I’ve thoroughly beaten Lt. Dantos. Or perhaps we should have him fight Ser Meryn to see who has the better guard. What do you say, Mormont?” the Prince mocked as Ser Meryn snorted in laughter behind him. 

“I’m afraid I’m not dressed appropriately, Your Grace,” Jorah responded. Just from a few seconds of observation, Jorah had no doubt that he could pummel the Prince. As for Ser Meryn, he was a younger and well muscled man, but Jorah was not intimidated. He knew there was nothing to be gained from such a fight though.

“Afraid to take a punch, Mormont?” the Prince asked cockily, and then he hit Daenerys hard in the shoulder, causing the Princess to give a small cry of pain. 

Jorah stepped between them in a heartbeat, using his left arm to shield Daenerys behind him as Viserys laughed. Jorah found himself clenching both his free fist and his jaw and felt his heart hammering. 

“Well, well,” the Prince cooed, stepping closer until he was inches from Jorah’s face. “Aren’t you protective? I guess that is your duty. Don’t think to strike me unless we are sparring though, Mormont. You can lose your life if you dare hit a Prince in anger in this country. A Northman like you should know that after what happened to Brandon Stark.” Ser Meryn had stepped closer as well, and in his periphery, Jorah noticed several soldiers watching cautiously from their posts as he willed himself to be calm. Viserys continued, “Are you sure you don’t want to spar, Mormont?” Then he sucker punched Jorah in the groin, leaving him bent over and gasping on one knee, before laughing and walking away with Ser Meryn following in his wake. 

When his mind was able to process anything but the pain and nausea, he felt Daenerys’ gentle touch on his shoulder and heard her say, “Are you alright, Ser? I’m so sorry for my brother.” He saw tears in her eyes and a bruise already forming on her own shoulder.  _ What the fuck have I gotten myself into _ ? Jorah groaned inwardly.  _ I’m going to break the little twat’s neck and get myself killed if I’m not careful. _

He managed to regain his feet and brushed the dirt off of his knee. “I will live, Princess,” he said in a tight voice. “But come, let’s look after your shoulder.” Not giving her a chance to reply, he walked stiffly to the door and held it for her. Once inside, he went straight to the freezer, found an ice pack, wrapped it in a towel, and brought it to her. 

She took it, tears still in her eyes, and gave a soft thank you before adding, “It has been a long day. I’m afraid I’m tired and would like to retire. I will see you in the morning. I trust you will find everything you need in your bathroom, but if not, call any of the palace staff. Good night, Ser.” He bowed his head and wished her good night as she went into her room.

Jorah ate another sandwich for supper, unsure if he could help himself to anything else. He worried briefly that the Princess had not eaten before reminding himself that he was here to spy on her, not worry about her diet. He tried to read for a while but couldn’t focus. Eventually, he gave up and readied himself for bed before sinking into the luxurious sheets. Exhaustion overcame him quickly, and soon, he slept. That night, Jorah dreamed of Daenerys and of his father and mother. 


	8. Father - March 1272 AC

** _Father - March 1272 AC_ **

_ His cousin Dacey had found Jorah hiding in the small cave overlooking the harbor that they often played in, especially when they were younger. “Go away,” Jorah had said. “Leave me alone.”  _

_ “Brother,” the girl had replied, “You have to come back eventually. You’ll freeze out here.” _

_ “I’ll build a fire.”  _

_ “What will you eat?” _

_ “I’ll hunt.” _

_ “With your bow? Or were you fool enough to take a gun?” Dacey had asked doubtfully.  _

_ Jorah’s eyes had betrayed him as he glanced to the rifle, and Dacey had sighed. “He will punish you for that as well, but it’s too late now. Come, Jorah, the longer you stay away, the angrier he’ll be.” _

_ “I’ll stay until he has to go back to the Wall.” _

_ “Then my mother will be angry instead.” _

_ “She doesn’t hit as hard,” the boy had pointed out. “She doesn’t hate me like he does.” _

_ “Jorah,” Dacey had said sympathetically, “Mother says you remind him of your mother. Mother says he does love you, as he loved her. He doesn’t hate you. Besides, you brought this one on yourself. Just come back and get it over with.” _

_ Jorah’s mother had died four years before. He had loved her with all his heart, and then, rather suddenly, she’d fallen seriously ill and died not long after. On the day his mother died, he’d cried, and his father had looked at him and given him a very light pat on the shoulders. “You can cry today, boy. Mourn your mother. But after today, I don’t want to see another tear. You’re a Mormont. You need to be strong.” Jorah had cried again a few days later during his mother’s funeral, with nearly all of Bear Island in attendance, and the instant the ceremony was done, his father had grabbed him roughly by the arm and smacked him. “You’re to be Lord of this Island someday. I’ll not have you crying in front of your people.” Jorah had fled into the forest then and only returned hours later after dark and long after supper, his suit and shoes filthy, and his father had thrashed him for it and sent him to bed with an empty stomach. _

_ Jorah remembered his mother as kind and loving and beautiful with a smile on her face most of the time. His father was hard and demanding and gruff, and never smiled. Well, he had once, when his mother was alive, but only for her, and never since. Jorah had remembered that when his mother was alive, he’d missed his father when he went away for weeks or months at a time for his military duties, but now it was a relief when he was gone, not that Aunt Maege was much better.  _

_ His mother had hugged and kissed him often, and loved to read, play the guitar, and sing. She’d read to him every day until he was old enough to read himself, and then she’d given him books of his own, tales of knights and dragons and princesses, adventures of bravery and love that he’d cherished. He had loved to sit in her lap and read more than anything. His father would mutter that she would make Jorah soft, but he’d smile when she protested, and let her continue. She sang to him at bedtime, and tucked him into bed with kisses, calling him her precious Jorah. Now, his father and Aunt Maege both growled at him to get his head out of the clouds when he read anything but his school books or the dull books on military history or essays on honor and duty that his father kept. Jorah had taken to saying that the novels he would read were assigned by his teacher until his father had talked to the teacher and found out the truth. Then he’d taken a belt to Jorah’s backside for lying. Now when Jorah had wanted to read his stories and his poems, he went out into the forest or to the cave where no one would find him, except Dacey, or he hid in his room with a single candle for light, as he did not dare use up the battery on his flashlight. He knew he was too old to be tucked into bed anymore, but it still hurt when Aunt Maege or his father called him “boy” instead of “Jorah,” and shooed him off to bed without another word.  _

_ Jorah’s mother had told him it was okay to be gentle. His father and aunt told him to be a man. Jorah was a strong, athletic boy, but his father criticized him as soft, saying that Dacey, who was a year younger, and even little Alysane, were tougher, and they were girls to boot. When he’d first learned to box a year after his mother died, he’d been better than most of the other boys in training, but he held back during sparring, as if he was afraid to hit the other boys too hard or perhaps as if he was afraid to be hit himself. His father, home for a brief three day leave, had watched him one day before pulling him from the ring by his collar in the middle of the bout. He’d then made him fight much older boys, telling them not to hold back, and with permission from their Lord, they’d taken great delight in beating their young Lordling bloody. When Jorah had started to cry, his father had dragged him inside and given him a hiding that had left him unable to sit comfortably for a week. Jorah had never cried again when boxing, or playing rugby, or practicing with his sword or even when he’d fallen from his horse and broken his arm. _

_ Jorah had few friends among the other boys on the Island. He was to be their Lord someday, so he could not be their equal. Yet, they relished chances to knock him down with fists or words if they thought him too haughty when no one was looking or if his father gave tacit permission, which was often enough. Once, his father heard that Jorah had not defended himself at school and had retreated from a fight, and he’d beaten him when he’d gotten home, telling him that if he were to be a man and a Lord, he must always stand up for himself. Later that same year, Jorah had fought and thrashed three other boys in one day, leaving one bloody and nearly unconscious. His father was away at the Wall, but the headmaster had told Aunt Maege, and she’d been furious. “Father said I must stand up for myself,” Jorah had argued. She’d replied, “He didn’t mean like that, you fool,” and then she’d taken her paddle to him, and the next time he’d seen his father, he’d thrashed him for speaking back to his aunt. Jorah had thought now that his mother was gone, Dacey was the only person left in the world who loved him, and maybe Alysane, but she was just a little girl. _

_ As the sun began to set, the temperature dropping and his stomach rumbling, he had finally given in to Dacey’s pleas and agreed to come back to the Keep. His father had looked up from his desk when he’d walked in with his head bowed. “So you decided to come back, boy?” his father said gruffly. _

_ “Yes, Father,” Jorah said sullenly. _

_ “Look at me when I speak to you,” his father growled. _

_ Jorah raised his head, forcing himself to maintain eye contact and repeated, “Yes, Father.” _

_ “You cheated on your math test and lied to your teacher about it. Do you deny it?” _

_ “No, Father.” _

_ “Why?” _

_ Jorah had not expected that question. His father rarely asked for him to explain himself. “I wanted to do well to please you, Father,” he had whispered. His father barked at him to speak up, and he had repeated himself. In truth, aside from his mother’s love which he knew was gone forever, there was nothing Jorah wanted more than to please his father, but it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he always failed.  _

_ “And why should you need to cheat to do well?” asked his father.  _

_ “Because I didn’t understand it, and I didn’t have enough time to study, Father.” _

_ “You didn’t have enough time because you had your head in the clouds, playing with Dacey in the forest and reading those damned fairy tales. Do you deny it?” his father countered, gripping his arm hard enough to bruise. _

_ “No, Father,” Jorah replied, forcing his eyes away from his feet. In truth, he had played with Dacey briefly after school and read a single chapter of one of his novels, but he’d also been up before dawn for physical training and practiced with both his sword and rifle with the master-at-arms in the evening as his father required each day, and he’d memorized the paragraphs from essays on honor and discipline that his father quizzed him on, and he’d done his chores - chopping wood, caring for his horse, cleaning his room and the bathroom he used to a shine, cleaning his rifle, ironing his school clothes - and done his science and history homework, and then he’d fallen asleep exhausted with his math book opened before him. His father would never accept such an excuse though. _

_ “So in short, you neglected your duty for foolishness. Then you damaged your honor by cheating to cover for it. Then you lied to cover your cheating. Then you fled responsibility when you heard I had found out. Is there anything else I’m missing?” his father had roared. _

_ “I took a rifle from the armory into the forest without your leave, Father.” His father’s scowl had deepened at that. _

_ “If you had failed your exam, I would have been disappointed and maybe you’d get a lash or two for neglecting your studies,” his father said. “Now, I will have to beat you for that and also for cheating and for lying and for running like a craven from responsibility, and for disobeying my orders about use of the armory.” And so he did. Jorah took each lash without so much as a whimper.  _

_ _

_ Later that night, as Jorah lay on his bed trying to focus on his math, his backside still aching and his stomach still grumbling, his father had come into his room. Surprised, Jorah had jumped to his feet, managing to hide most of his grimace of pain. His father had told him to sit, then seemed to think better of it, and said, not unkindly, “Or you may lie down as you were if that’s more comfortable.”  _

_ Lord Jeor Mormont sat on the bed beside Jorah, and in a gruff voice, he said, “Jorah, I know you think I am too hard on you. I do expect a lot from you just as my father expected a lot from me. That is in part because you are a Mormont, and you have a name to uphold. And I know you think it is not fair because my sister and I both treat your cousins more gently, though they are Mormonts as well. Yes, in a small way, it is because they are girls, although you know Bear Island women are as fierce as mainlander men. But more, it is because I am your Lord, and you are my son, my only child, my heir. You, not your cousins, will be Lord of Bear Island one day. You will carry on the family name. You know our words. We have stood on this Island for centuries, and the Mormont names relies on you to continue to stand here. You will one day be Lord of this Island and every man, woman, and child on it, which means you will be Lord over your cousins and Lord even over your aunt. I know you love your stories, but you will be a Northern Lord and a soldier, not some Southron knight. The North is hard and cold, and you must be hard and cold in it, but also fair, and just. And above all, son, you must be honorable because without your honor, you are nothing.” _

_ His father paused, and Jorah swore that he had seen the older man’s eyes briefly swell with tears before he continued, “I loved your mother. I miss her terribly. I know you do too. Did you know you have her eyes? Even now, it pains me when I see you smile because her eyes were so often smiling and now they are gone forever, but that is my failing, not yours. You have some of her softness and gentleness in you, and she would be proud, but I fear for you because there is little room for that in the world of soldiers and Lords. Someday, when you have a wife of your own, you must always treat her gently, and you may find softness and gentleness in her arms when you are alone. But to the rest of the world, even to your children, that is a danger. You must protect this island, and you must prepare your children, especially your eldest son who will be Lord after you. That is the role of a Lord and father. I want to raise you to be a strong and honorable man, worthy of my own Lord father’s name. I know sometimes I have been rough on you. I pray to the Old Gods that you will understand someday, but know that I am sorry for my shortcomings as a father, and- and know that I do love you.” Those last words came out particularly gruffly, and Jorah could not recall a single time he’d heard his father say them to him before. _

_ His father continued, “But I must be careful in that as well because the things we love destroy us every time, lad. That is the hardest lesson of all that I pray you never have to learn through experience. Do you understand what I’ve just told you?” _

_ “Yes, Father,” Jorah had responded, although he hadn’t understood how love could destroy or why he must be one way with his wife and another with his children someday. Then his father kissed him on the forehead for the first and only time that Jorah could remember and left the room.  _


	9. Chapter 6 - Daenerys - July 1300 AC

**Chapter 6 - Daenerys - July 1300 AC**

As she took Ser Jorah’s hand to climb into the black SUV on a scorching hot July day, Daenerys smiled at Missi and Irri’s excited chatter about her upcoming 17th Name Day Ball, the dresses they wanted to wear, and the men who would be present. She was soon to be a woman grown. The Coming of Age Ball for the King’s youngest child was the social event of the year. She thought that perhaps most girls would plan for such events with friends who were equals, not with two handmaids, but nonetheless, she felt a deep fondness for the girls and even some excitement about the upcoming ball. 

It had been half a year since the day Ser Jorah joined the household. Viserys had directed his rage at her a few more times in the days immediately after, accusing her of waking the dragon, but he had not struck her again, primarily because Ser Jorah stepped wordlessly between them each time he raised his hand to her. Once, he punched Ser Jorah in the face, but the large man had barely flinched although she saw a bruise darkening his cheek afterwards. Another time, he ordered the knight to hit her, but Ser Jorah had acted as if Viserys said nothing at all and had simply asked Daenerys if she would like to return to her apartments for her midday meal. Still another time, in his rage at Ser Jorah’s intervention, he ordered Ser Meryn to strike Jorah. Ser Meryn had hesitated just briefly before moving to obey his Prince. The two men had grappled briefly and both delivered a few body blows before Ser Jorah landed a punch that had staggered the other man, then used an uppercut to knock him out, and Viserys had not bothered her since then.

She still saw Viserys at their weekly Wednesday night dinners with their father, and she saw him in passing nearly every day, but he had been cordial if not outright pleasant during each encounter. A few nights ago, he had even invited Daenerys and by extension, Ser Jorah, to join him and Ser Meryn in his apartments to watch the football match between King’s Landing and Storm’s End. His behavior had been erratic throughout the evening but he had been friendly to Daenerys and outright chummy towards Ser Jorah, asking him about the leagues and players in Volantis and Pentos and ribbing him about the typical poor showings of teams in the North. After King’s Landing took a 1-0 lead, he had absolutely insisted that Ser Jorah have a celebratory drink. Ser Jorah politely declined, citing the fact that he was on duty, but Viserys would hear none of it. “I permit Ser Meryn to drink with me in the evening, I permit you do the same,” he said gleefully. When Ser Jorah still hesitated, he said, “I even got a few of those Northern ales that I hear your kind are fond of. Meryn and I will never drink it, so you must, I command it.” Ser Jorah had at last agreed to just one, but when he finished it, Viserys had insisted that he have another and then another, and with each drink, Ser Jorah protested less, and he even had a whiskey before the night was done. 

When they returned to her apartments after the game, Ser Jorah staggered slightly and wished her good night in a slurred voice. The next morning, she came out of her room to find him drinking coffee and reading the paper, as was his custom. When he saw her, he immediately rose but looked at his feet and said, “Princess, I must ask your forgiveness for my behavior last night. I hope I did not say anything to displease you. It will not happen again.” Daenerys told him there was nothing to forgive, and she hoped that perhaps her brother’s good moods would continue. 

As she reflected on the past months, she realized she still mourned her brother, Rhaegar, and his family, but she found herself happier most of the time than at any other time that she could remember. She continued to enjoy the company of Missi and Irri, but she also had found a comfort in Jorah’s near constant presence and found herself confiding in him about things she had never spoken about to anyone. She felt herself growing in strength and confidence with Ser Jorah as well. He was the first grown man she’d ever known who encouraged her so openly instead of belittling her or simply seeming amused by her. Ser Jorah was quite often gruff and cynical and almost always serious, and while he did still seem to treat her as a child from time to time, he did so in a protective rather than patronizing way. Most of the time, he simply built her up. When she expressed doubts or acted timidly or deferred to what she thought her brother or father would want, he reminded her that she too was blood of the dragon. And while he was not shy in sharing his opinions and argued with her occasionally, when she made up her mind and gave him an order, he obeyed. Never before had she had a grown man of noble birth, and a veteran soldier at that, in her day-to-day service, and when he obeyed her and deferred to her, even on rather trivial matters, she had at first been shocked. However, his absolute obedience had continued, and even in instances when he’d initially try to dissuade her on certain matters, once he knew her mind was set, he’d do as she wished with such devotion that it gave her a heady sense of confidence that she had never experienced before. 

He was fiercely protective, and one day, after he told her a story of the bears that lived on his native island and later she observed him return from the gym, his hairy arms and legs visible, his hair slightly disheveled, she had called him her fierce bear. He had reddened and looked at his feet rather bashfully, but she had continued to use that nickname when they were in private, and he hadn’t seemed to mind, as he must have known she did not say it as a mockery. 

She spoke with him often of literature and read books that he recommended, and she had asked him to teach her the rules of his beloved rugby which she knew he frequently watched on television in his room. Eventually, he felt comfortable watching in the common living room with her. He’d also taught her the basics of shooting when she’d asked to tag along with him to the range one day when he went for his weekly practice. The other men there, including Grey, seemed shocked that she was there, but Ser Jorah didn’t seem to think it odd at all that she might want to learn. He’d told her that women on Bear Island regularly trained with weapons. His open mindedness only went so far though when she asked him to allow her to join him as he practiced his swordsmanship and boxing. He’d agreed to show her the basics of throwing a punch and holding a sword, but when she wanted to jump right into sparring, he’d insisted that unless they could find a suitable sparring partner for her, it was out of the question. She had only relented when Missandei and Irri agreed with him. 

Ser Jorah taught her Dothraki at her request. He was fluent, and it was one of the few languages Missi did not know well. Daenrys enjoyed practicing her languages with the pair. Ser Jorah’s High Valayrian was poor at best, although he was proficient in the dialects spoken in Volantis, Lys, and Astapor, and Missi laughed at his attempts at the Ghiscari mongrel blend, but he took the teasing good naturedly. He taught her to care for and tack up a horse. He had given a snort of disbelief when she first told him she didn’t know how to saddle her horse, but when he realized she was serious, he was patient in his lessons. She still left those tasks to the grooms and stable boys most days, but Grey told her that he typically cared for the horse he used on his own, either before she woke, or when she gave him leave to do as he pleased on the grounds during the day. 

Ser Jorah read the newspaper nearly every morning and soon she did so as well, but she’d been surprised when he’d chuckled one day when she told him about an article about residents of Flea Bottom holding a spontaneous rally to thank the King and Lord Robert for some government initiative that improved economic conditions in the area. “You must take these articles with a grain of salt, Princess. Who do you think controls the papers?” So it wasn’t true, she’d asked him. “There is likely some sort of truth to it. In my experience, there are rarely complete fabrications, but in Westeros, I only entirely trust the sports section.” He’d then gone on to explain the much freer presses found in Braavos and Qohor and even Volantis. “In order for the press to be free, the people must be free to speak without fear,” he told her. It was the first time anyone she knew had said a word of criticism against the political system, and she thought he was the wisest man she’d ever met. 

Daenerys loved riding with Ser Jorah through the Kingswood. Previously, she’d only been allowed to ride within the walls of the Red Keep or on Dragonstone when she visited. She’d thought she was a great rider until she’d met Ser Jorah, who sat more comfortably in the saddle than anyone she’d known, and the first day, not wanting him to think less of her own ability and enjoying the freedom of the woods, she’d ridden for far too long. When they’d finally stopped and she’d tried to get down from her horse, her legs in pain and her fingers raw from the reins, he’d leapt from his mount first, lifting her to the ground gently. “Why didn’t you say something, Princess? We could have stopped long ago,” he’d said. 

In the weeks to come, he insisted on frequent breaks, but slowly her skills and her stamina improved. They rode nearly every weekend, except for his first weekend off, when she’d missed it and him terribly. The next month when he was supposed to be off duty, he’d taken her riding on Saturday and only left the Keep for the rest of the weekend after they’d returned that night. Missi and Irri often joined them on the drive there in order to enjoy the fresh air and picnic, grooms and servants accompanied them to load the trailers and set up canopied tents for their meals, and other guards rode well ahead on the path on ATVs, but only Ser Jorah rode by her side. Occasionally, they met nobles or even commoners, and Daenerys delighted in speaking to them, but mostly they rode alone and talked for hours. She gave him leave to call her Daenerys at such times, and occasionally he did, although more often he called her Khaleesi, and sometimes Daenerys practiced her Dothraki with him and pretended that they road through the grass sea that he’d described for her instead of through the Kingswood. She felt free on these trips, a regular girl without a care in the world, not a princess confined to a palace and the rigid formality of court, and although Ser Jorah wore a kevlar vest and slung a rifle over his back and wore a sword on his hip as a constant reminder of unseen threats while they rode, she felt safer alone with him in the woods than she did at the Keep. She thought Ser Jorah seemed more relaxed as well in his cargo pants and old boots, his flannel shirts left unbuttoned at the collar, instead of his typical suits. The normally quiet and reticent man spoke more freely as they rode and was more prone to laughter and smiles. When he lifted her down from her horse, she would catch his scent, sweat intermingled with the soap and deodorant that he used and fresh air and horses, and she came to associate it with safety and with freedom. 

On rides, while she told him much about her childhood and her family, her hopes and her dreams, and he entertained her with stories of Essos and the North and was always happy to offer her advice, she realized after the fact and with slight concern that he shared little of his personal life. Whenever she asked about it, he’d quickly steer the conversation to another story about some adventure full of details, but few of them about him. Nonetheless, one day, when she’d asked his advice on some trivial matter, what it was, she couldn’t even remember, and he’d given his opinion and ended it with the phrase he uttered so often when it was just the two of them - “trust me, Khaleesi” - she decided that she did. She’d told him so, and he gifted her with one of his rare smiles which he seemed to have only for her, his blue eyes, so often brooding or tinged with melancholy, twinkling with happiness and crinkling at the corners. 

Now, as she prepared to leave the Red Keep with her friends, she felt almost giddy with optimism with thoughts of the upcoming Ball and the quickly approaching Fall semester on her mind. She and her handmaids dressed fashionably but casually in sundresses and sandals for the day of shopping in the Blackwater Bay District. Jorah climbed in last in a suit, his jacket buttoned and tie secure. Daenerys noted his bulletproof vest on underneath, and his shoes shined to a shimmer that matched the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Ser Jorah only wore the vest when they left the Red Keep, and it worried her to think that he’d ever have need of it. She thought to tell him he could remove his jacket in the heat and roll up his sleeves, but she knew he would not. The only times she’d seen him in anything less formal when heading outside the walls of the Keep was when they went riding and on his rare days off duty. Even within the Keep, he only ever rolled up his sleeves or loosened his tie at night when she was done leaving her apartments for the day. As everyone buckled in, he spoke into his radio, “Khaleesi is on the move” as the vehicle pulled away from the curb.

“Ser Jorah, what exactly is a khaleesi anyhow? I know it is a Dothraki word, but what does it mean?” she asked.

He chuckled at the question, and one of his rare smiles creased his face. “In ancient times, Princess, a khaleesi was like a Dothraki queen, a wife to their horse lord king, called a khal. Some of the Dothraki tribal warlords still go by the title of khal, although the term khaleesi seems to have gone out of fashion. If you lived amongst the Dothraki of old, you would certainly be a khaleesi though, as strong and fierce as you are. I apologize for not telling you sooner, I thought you knew that already. Irri, I would have thought you would have told her.”

“I’ve never been to Essos and don’t speak Dothraki, Jorah the Andal” Irri replied. “Only my mother speaks it.” Irri had been excited to ask Jorah about her ancestral homeland when she learned he had been there, and had taken great joy in mocking him with his Dothraki nickname after Missi let it slip.

“Did the man you fought with call himself a khal?” inquired the Princess.

“Aye,” the knight replied, and she saw something dark briefly flash in his eyes before he looked away to scan the traffic. “He went by Khal Drogo. He kept with the practice of uncut hair as well. In traditional Dothraki culture, a man cuts his hair only when he loses a fight. Khal Drogo had a long braid that had never been cut. That tradition isn’t kept by all of the Dothraki anymore, but those in his Khalasar followed some of the old ways. He had a long, uncut mustache as well.”

“It is known, even by me” giggled Irri, “See, I know something of my ancestors’ culture.”

“Is that why you have a beard, Ser Jorah?” she asked. Almost all of the highborn men that she had met in Westeros were clean shaven, and he was the only man in her father’s household besides an old maester who wore a beard. 

Ser Jorah reddened slightly and shook his head. “No, Khaleesi, I grew a beard because in the field, there was rarely time to shave, or razors, or mirrors. And I keep the beard now to hide my ugly face, although I trim it regularly. Besides, I know they are rare in the South, but you’ll find beards are a bit more common amongst Northmen, at least in the winter, as it keeps our cheeks warm. However, if my beard displeases you, I will shave it as soon as we return to the Keep.”

“Oh no, Ser, I meant no such thing. Your beard fits you well.” She feared she had offended him.  _ Does he truly think his face is ugly? I thought it was hard when I first saw him, but when he speaks to me, it is always kind. Only his scar is ugly.  _ She wondered, not for the first time, how he got that scar on his cheek as well as the one on his neck, but she didn’t want to embarrass him further by asking.

“And here we are, Princess,” Ser Jorah said, interrupting her thoughts, and noting their arrival into his radio. As the SUV stopped, Jorah stepped out, took a quick glance around, and then offered his hand to help each of her handmaids step down before helping her out last. He then moved swiftly to the door of the boutique and held the door for the girls to pass. Ser Jorah was the only highborn man she had ever seen who offered a hand to or held a door for Irri or Missandei. Over the past weeks, she had seen him do it several times throughout her apartments, and once she’d even seen him jump up from the couch where he was watching a rugby match to take a heavy tray from a kitchen maid and carry it into the kitchen for her. When she commented on this to Irri, her handmaid had whispered to her that in Jorah’s first few weeks in her service, she had overheard him tell the housekeeper that he could make his own bed and clean his own room if she could just show him where the vacuum was kept, but that he’d be grateful if she could take his laundry. “Did you have servants on Bear Island?” she had asked him later as he read on the couch. “Some,” he replied absentmindedly, adding nothing further, and she wondered what he left out.

As they entered the boutique, several shop attendants rushed to meet her, curtseying low and offering them snacks and champagne. The shop owner, a man wearing a smart tuxedo, came out of his office and bowed, saying, “Princess, you honor us with your presence. My girls will take care of anything you need. I will let them get you started and check on you shortly.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jorah doing a quick scan of the shop before going to stand by the door. 

The girls spent the next hour trying on dresses and giggling. Missandei settled on a simple, turquoise gown after only a few minutes, and Irri eventually picked a rather revealing red dress, but Daenerys had a harder time making a decision as Irri commented about what sort of reaction each dress would provoke from Loras Tyrell or Joffrey Baratheon or Robb Stark or Theon Greyjoy. Daenerys felt a flutter of anxiety suddenly. She had met Loras and Joffrey a few times, but only briefly in formal settings, and she’d only heard of the two boys coming all the way from Winterfell, although she found Robb rather handsome in the pictures she’d seen. Daenerys found herself feeling very indecisive as she narrowed it down to a final three, examining the reflection of herself in an elegant red dress critically, before having a thought. “Go get Ser Jorah, I’d have his opinion,” she instructed Missandei, but it was Irri who sprinted out of the changing room with a grin and called, “Jorah the Andal, come quickly, the Princess needs you!” 

She heard Jorah approaching at a near run, and when he came around the corner, she saw concern on his face before his eyes swept over her body and she saw something else she couldn’t quite place in his blue eyes when they met hers. He quickly looked away, a slight blush coloring his face, and he said gruffly, “Is everything okay, Princess? How can I be of service?”

“I need your opinion, Jorah. You’re a man. Which dress do you prefer?” His blush deepened, and he mumbled something she couldn’t make out. “I couldn’t hear what you said, Ser.”

“I said you look beautiful, Princess,” he said more loudly, his hand unconsciously rubbing the stubble under his lip, still not looking at her. 

“Well, you haven’t seen the other choices yet. Irri, help me get out of this and let’s try the black one again.” Jorah quickly turned his back as Irri and the shop assistant started to change her. The black one was Irri’s idea and far more revealing than she would have picked for herself even though it fit her well. When she was done, she told him to turn around. Barely glancing at her before averting his eyes, he once again said, “You look beautiful, Princess.” 

“But you didn’t even look!” she exclaimed. 

He dragged his eyes back to her and swept them over her body, and she thought she saw them linger briefly on her cleavage before quickly looking away. “As I said, you look beautiful, Princess,” he said gruffly. He didn’t meet her eyes. Daenerys sighed loudly, at which point the knight said, “Forgive me, Princess, but I know little and less of dresses. All I know is that you have looked lovely in both so far.”

Daenerys exchanged an eye roll with Missi before saying, “Well, let’s try this last one, and then you must tell me which is your favorite. I value your advice, Ser.” Irri and the assistant helped her change into the last dress, a flowing blue gown, while Ser Jorah fidgeted nervously with his back to her, his hands clenched at his sides.  _ Why is this seasoned warrior so scared of dresses? You’d think he’s never seen a ballgown before,  _ she thought _ .  _ He had mentioned that he had grown up with several girl cousins once. Surely, he’d seen them prepare for dances. She realized suddenly that perhaps she was teasing him with this exercise. “You may turn around, Ser. Don’t make me command you to look carefully. I’d have your honest opinion. And don’t you dare say I look beautiful again.”

Ser Jorah turned, and he swallowed deeply, his adam’s apple bobbing. After a pause, he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “But you  _ do  _ look beautiful, Princess. You would make any dress look beautiful. But if you must have my opinion, I favor this one. The red dress is the most elegant, and the black is- well, I know both red and black are your house colors, but I think the blue is… it is… it is the prettiest.” 

Daenerys smiled and declared, “The blue one it is. I will take it. Thank you, Jorah.” Ser Jorah looked relieved, bowed slightly, and quickly returned to his place at the front door.

After being fitted, and picking shoes and a few other accessories, the girls were finally prepared to leave. However, by that time, word of her presence had spread, and a small crowd, a mixture of commoners and paparazzi had gathered outside. Ser Jorah said they should wait and he would call for backup to clear a path, but Daenerys rebuffed him saying, “There is no harm in being seen by my father’s people. I have enjoyed meeting them in the Kingswood when we come upon them. We will go now.” Ser Jorah started to argue with her, saying this was not the same as the Kingswood, but she cut him short with a sharp look and a pronouncement that her decision was final. 

The knight inclined his head slightly, curtly saying, “As you wish, Princess,” and then told Missi and Irri to follow as closely as possible behind them. 

He placed his left hand on the small of Daenerys’ back to lead her out the door. Cameras began flashing the second the door opened, but Ser Jorah used his broad back to shield her from most of them and began to shoulder his way through the crowd. The crowd pressed in, and for a brief moment, Daenerys felt afraid, but then Jorah’s hand slid to her to her shoulder and pulled her tighter to him, against his strong chest and she breathed in his scent and felt safe. He began to use his free hand to push people aside as he called for the driver to come help him. She heard him mutter under his breath, “ _ This _ is when a sword would be of use.” Some of the reporters began to shout questions - Did she have a date to the ball? Who were the girls with her? What would she be wearing? 

As the driver came around to open her door and Jorah helped her into the vehicle, she heard a nearby voice yell, “Which young Lordling will have the honor of fucking the dragon princess after the ball?” and several in the crowd laughed. 

Jorah whirled around, his right hand going to the dagger on his hip and loosing it as he growled, “Mind your tongue,” his other hand grabbing the man by the collar and nearly lifting him off his feet. 

Daenerys turned and grabbed Jorah’s shoulder, and said urgently, “Jorah, leave him.” When he did not loosen his grip on the man, she insisted, “Do as I say. Now.” Only then did he lower the knife from the man’s throat and release him and climb into the vehicle after Missi and Irri.

As the driver pulled away, her emotions on edge from the recent scare, she whirled on Jorah, yelling. “There was no need for that to begin with, but if you ever hesitate when I give a command again, I’ll - I’ll - you’ll be punished,” she finished in an unconvincing tone. She saw the look of surprise on his face. 

After a heartbeat, it was smooth again, but he said in an indignant tone, “Forgive me, Princess, but the situation was becoming dangerous, and a man should never speak to a woman like that, much less a Princess.”

“It was just a poor joke, Ser, and I did not wish to see him harmed,” she said in an apologetic voice.

Jorah sighed and said softly, “You have a gentle heart, Princess, and I intended no serious harm, but a knight cannot ignore such ungentle words directed towards a Lady. I took a vow-” 

“I do not have a gentle heart, Ser!” she yelled, her anger rising again. Then she blurted, “And I heard Ser Boros tell Ser Arys yesterday that you were not gentle in word or deed towards your own Lady wife!” 

Ser Jorah’s face paled briefly, and she saw a haunted look in his eyes, before he bowed his head and said gruffly, “As you say, Princess. I apologize for displeasing you.” 

_ No one ever argues with Father like this, or with Viserys,  _ she thought. _ But I don’t wish to be like Viserys, and Ser Jorah was only trying to protect me. Why did I shame him with such gossip? But why do his eyes tell me it is true? _

Nobody spoke for the rest of the ride home.

_____

Ser Jorah asked her leave to go to the gym and then to the training yard to practice with his sword as soon as they were safely back at her apartments. She gave him permission, and he reminded her that he had his radio should she require anything of him before he quickly left. 

“He never really told you what he did,” Missi said quietly when he was gone.

“What do you mean?” Daenerys asked. 

Her friend responded, “That first day, when you asked him what he did to lose his lordship and dishonor his house, he gave some vague answers about neglecting his duties. But he did not say what he actually did.”

Daenerys realized she was right, and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I’ll ask him tonight,” she declared. But when Ser Jorah returned hours later, he gave only a stiff greeting before going into his room, and he did not emerge again that day, not even for supper. The next morning, he was already up, drinking his coffee and reading a paper, when she left her room, and he greeted her cheerfully as if nothing had happened. It was a beautiful day, and she decided not to ruin it by bringing up the unpleasantness of yesterday.


	10. Dothraki - June 1299 AC

**Dothraki - June 1299 AC**

_ As Jorah had taken in his surroundings, he thought briefly of his father. The smell of blood and smoke filled his nostrils, and screams assaulted his ears. Jorah’s face was hard, smattered with blood and covered in sweat and dust, his blue eyes cold and emotionless. Am I hard enough for you now, Father? he had thought bitterly, but also sadly.  _

_ He’d been on dozens of raids since joining Khal Drogo nearly three years ago, but this was the first time he’d ever charged into battle on a horse, using his sword as his primary weapon. When he’d been in the Westorosi Cavalry, they had trained for such an event, but that was just for show, and the few times he’d ridden due to the terrain during an actual campaign, they’d always dismounted when engaged with the enemy. With the Dothraki, it was much the same. They typically approached in jeeps and battered trucks or occasionally rode horses off road before dismounting and attacking, but this Lhazareen village was located in such terrain that Khal Drogo had ordered a horse charge. Jorah had thought to use his rifle as they swept from the foothills into the village just as the sun rose, but he found it too hard to aim at a gallop, and so he had unsheathed his sword and chopped off the arm of the first man he encountered, and then split the skull of a second, whom he had realized was a boy and not a man only after the deed was done. The villagers never stood a chance as they were overwhelmed within minutes.  _

_ He had adapted easily enough to most of the Dothraki way of life after joining up with Khal Drogo’s khalasar perhaps because he’d become very adaptable to simply surviving over the past few years. He’d mastered the language quickly, and he had little trouble adjusting to their nomadic lifestyle, sleeping in tents and riding alternately in jeeps or on horses across the grass sea. There was always an abundance of food, and while it was not a cuisine he was used to, after years of scraping by without enough to eat, he’d regained much of the weight he’d lost since he fled Bear Island a lifetime ago. Many of the warriors were initially wary or downright hostile towards him, but others were curious enough to speak to him and soon became friendly, although Jorah was not looking to make friends. They respected him for his hardness and strength and his skill in fighting even if he was not truly one of them, and while he avoided it when possible, he more than held his own in the fist fights which seemed to break out constantly among the men over the smallest slight.  _

_ It helped that Khal Drogo had for some reason taken a liking to him. He was technically one of his bodyguards, but Khal Drogo used him as a translator and advisor and treated him almost as a friend. After only a month, Drogo had told Jorah that he was welcome to any of the Dothraki women who were not already married and as many slave women as he’d like as well, and while Jorah had not taken him up on the offer, determined to never allow himself to feel affection for a woman again and not trusting himself to treat the slave woman any better than the deplorable way he thought the Dothraki did if he should take one of them with no tenderness in his heart, but he did realize that the offer was meant as an honor. Jorah had told himself he was past caring about anything but his own survival and looked on impassively during arms deals with men who would be branded as war criminals in Westeros. He didn’t flinch as he watched the Dothraki warriors enslave their captives, selling them in exchange for weapons and supplies or otherwise abusing them. But in truth, his heart was not impassive, and he didn’t think he could ever get used to the aftermath of raids.  _

_ The first time he, a veteran of dozens of battles and firefights, had seen the aftermath of a Dothraki raid, bile had filled his mouth and he had to swallow it back down to avoid appearing weak. His time as a solider had made him almost used to death and he had even witnessed an occassional autrocity during campaigns with the Westorosi Army, and with the Golden Company, and during his time protecting a trading convoy, but never had he seen his comrades in arms rape and pillage and massacre with such abandon as the Dothraki did. He had told himself that he only fought armed combatants, what happened afterwards was not his concern since he took no part, but his heart told him that was a lie and he heard the faint whisper of Prince Rhaeger intoning, “In the name of the Mother… in the name of the Maid...”  _

_ On this day, he had again told himself he felt nothing as he watched, but that was not true either. He had felt unease as always, but this time, he felt a beast stirring within him like never before, and as he watched several Dothraki take turns raping a group of crying women, he had felt his own manhood begin to harden, his body craving a release from the fury and pain that had built up within him. The realization had shocked him, and he’d turned away in disgust, more at himself than at all he saw around him. _

_ He’d checked the Khal’s whereabouts and then made to ride away from the worst it, planning to let his horse drink in the nearby stream and graze until things died down when one of Drogo’s bloodriders, Qotho, stepped in front of him, holding a girl who couldn’t have been more than 10 by the hair. “Will you not partake, Jorah the Andal?” Qotho had called in a mocking tone. Drogo seemed not to mind that Jorah never participated in their raping and murdering, but many of the other warriors mocked him mercilessly, calling him a eunuch or asking if he preferred boys to girls, just as they mocked him as weak for wearing a kevlar vest, and considered him odd for never using the slave women for his own pleasure. Usually he took it silently, but this time Jorah had muttered some harsh comment in response to Qotho, questioning the manhood of someone who would desire a child, and Qotho had screamed insults about Jorah’s manhood in response. _

_ Distracted by his taunting, Qotho let the girl briefly slip away, and she ran screaming past Jorah towards a hut and woman who might have been her mother. The woman moved to protect the girl, and Qotho struck her down with one blow from his arakh then brushed past Jorah towards the hut.  _

_ When he thought back later, Jorah could have sworn that in that second, he was back on Bear Island, and it was not some Lhazareen girl, but his cousin Jorelle, who he’d loved and who’d been of that age when he left, and thus would always be that age in his mind. He leapt from his horse and called out, “No further, Horselord,” as he unsheathed his sword. The calmness of his voice surprised him as well as his decision to use his sword, but fists would not do in this instance and he could not shoot a bloodrider in the back and expect to live, though Drogo might respect the result of single combat. Qotho whirled, cursing, and only then had he remembered that the girl was not Jorelle but some nameless child, nothing to him, and he could not stop the entire hoard, but it was too late. _

_ Jorah was stronger, but Qotho was younger and quicker and his curved blade flashed so fast that Jorah soon found himself on the retreat, struggling to parry each stroke. Qotho spit curses in his face, mocking him as a fairy and a coward. A glancing blow left him bleeding from his left shoulder, and another missed his head by inches. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing as he felt the arakh nick the side of his neck before managing to block the next blow, and he used his shoulder to push the lighter man back. Qotho was on the attack again in an instant and slipped his blade past Jorah’s parry to strike him near the ribs, but his Kevlar vest shielded him from all but a nick, and the arakh stuck for just a heartbeat giving Jorah time to swing his sword with all his strength, delivering a lethal blow to the other man’s face. _

_ As he lowered his weapon and had time to think, fear caught up with him. The Dothraki had encircled him, and many had their own weapons, guns and blades alike, drawn. Jorah sheathed his sword and raised his hands slightly, not wanting to present himself as a threat any longer, although it had flashed through his mind that it would be better to die fighting than endure some drawn out torturous death that they were likely to choose for him. He’d once seen a man chained behind a horse, naked, and dragged to death, and another-  _

_ “Jorah the Andal,” Khal Drogo’s voice boomed, as the huge man came towards him. He looked down at his dead bloodrider, his dearest friend, and then back to Jorah. “Such as fierce warrior as you should have been born Dothraki, but alas, you were not, and now you have killed the blood of my blood. I will respect how you killed him and that you rode by my side for far longer than I thought you would last, but now it is time for us to part ways. You may take your horse and whatever food and supplies you can carry and go where you please, but I swear it to you, if we meet again, I will kill you.” Then he had embraced Jorah and walked away.  _

_ That night, as Jorah had camped in the Dothraki Sea, as far northwest of the village as he could ride in a single day, he had thought to pray to the Gods, the Old or the New or any other that might hear him, but then he remembered that he had not prayed in years and that he no longer believed in the Gods at all. So as he lay on his back gazing at the stars, he had instead whispered, “Mother, if you can hear me, please-” but he didn’t know what to ask for, and besides, surely she would be ashamed to have him for her son. He wanted to go home, but that was impossible, and there seemed to be nothing else left.  _

_ As he had ridden away from the village hours before, he had seen the little girl whom he had briefly saved raped by at least a dozen riders before having her throat slit, and she joined his dreams that night. _


	11. Chapter 7 - Jorah - August 1300 AC

**Chapter 7 - Jorah - August 1300 AC**

Jorah yanked his bowtie off with frustration as he failed yet again to tie it correctly. He checked the step by step instructions on his laptop for the third time and prepared to start over. He had worn a military dress tunic to most of the formal occasions in his life, and the one time he’d worn a tuxedo in Lys, Lynesse had been there to fix it for him, though he cursed himself now for allowing the memory of that ultimately miserable evening to cloud his thoughts at the start of what he hoped to be a pleasant night.

Daenerys and her handmaids had been excitedly preparing for days, and he was relieved that she had not revisited the unpleasant topic of Ser Boros’ rumors again. He had been given a thorough chewing out by Lord Commander Selmy for not waiting for backup during the shopping excursion and for the bad press in the exceptionally bold tabloid that mentioned a security officer roughing up a reporter. Jorah knew better than to argue his case or to mention that it was Daenerys who had insisted they not wait and had simply stood tall and taken the berating, his only words during the entire ten minute exchange being, “You asked to see me, my Lord… yes, my Lord... yes, my Lord… no, my Lord… yes, my Lord... no, my Lord… yes, my Lord… thank you, my Lord,” but otherwise, the incident and the resulting drive back to the Keep seemed to have been forgotten by everyone but him. 

Unfortunately, his nightmares had returned with a vengeance after a brief period of time when he’d enjoyed some nights with only a few dark dreams to compete with the occasionally pleasant ones. He still had those pleasant dreams from time to time, nearly always involving Daenerys and nearly always resulting in him waking achingly hard. They were frustrating in their own way, as he’d scold himself furiously for having such thoughts about the Princess and in his aroused state, he had to fight the urge to disrespect her further by closing his eyes to live out the images in the dreams with his hands. 

He had to admit, he’d come to enjoy her company over these months and was perhaps slightly smitten by her. She was not at all what he’d expected when he’d agreed to the job. He had tried to be indifferent to her at first, but after only a few weeks in her service, that had become nearly impossible to do. He’d found her compassionate, kind, intelligent, charismatic, and curious, if a bit naive and quick tempered, and he’d come to respect her greatly. He was almost personally proud of her growth in confidence in the months that he’d known her, and he thought she might even look up to him a bit, although he thought that if she’d known the truth about him, she’d realize that was a mistake. He told himself that he did not desire her, at least not during his waking hours, at least not anymore than any man would desire a breathtakingly beautiful young woman, and he chalked the erotic dreams up to a simple biological reaction of having gone far too long without a woman even when he felt the occasional, painful thud in his heart that he’d once associated with love. 

Of late though, he would have gladly welcomed more of those dreams, for he must have been haunted by at least a half dozen nightmares every night of late, and he’d regularly wake up trembling and drenched in cold sweat. He’d taken to catching brief naps throughout the day as he’d done when he was in Essos, as that was the only way he could sleep without being haunted by his past. 

He worried too about his reports to Varys. He felt no particular qualms in sharing what he saw of Viserys. The young man was cruel, arrogant, and impulsive, and while Jorah was thankful that he did not spend much time around him, he wasn’t so blind that he hadn’t noticed the residue of white powder on the corner table in his apartments when he’d been there to watch a football match nor that he’d missed the other telltale signs of drug use, mental instability, or both. Viserys certainly took after his father, and while Jorah rarely saw the King, even from a distance, he heard enough to know that the Mad King was as cruel and insane as rumors had implied. However, he hated the thought of betraying Daenerys. He shared as little as possible about her from the beginning, and of late, he shared next to nothing.

This evening though, he was determined to try to be happy for Daenerys’ sake, as he wanted her to have a perfect 17th Name Day. He also sensed that she was full of nerves, and he hoped he could be a calming presence before the Ball started. However, he found himself slightly ill at ease as he had realized when he heard Irri and Daenerys discussing the guest list that many nobles of his own age who knew him once before would be there. As he mulled over these thoughts and attempted to get his tie right, he heard a knock on his door and called for whomever it was to enter, assuming it would be Irri, Missi, or another servant with some sort of message.

He was startled to see Daenerys step into his room. She was already dressed and made up, her silvery blonde hair glistening in a flowing braid, a jeweled tiara on her head, the blue gown accenting her curves and complimenting her near violet eyes perfectly. Jorah forgot to breath for a moment, he found her so stunning, before quickly recovering and saying somewhat hoarsely, “Princess, is everything alright? How can I be of service?” She had never entered his room before. He wasn’t sure that it was even allowed although he supposed she could do as she pleased within her own apartments.

“You look very dashing, Ser. I’ve already given Irri and Missi leave to prepare themselves, and I just realized that I didn’t have them hook my back before leaving. Would you help me?”

“Hook your back?” Jorah asked dumbly.

Daenerys giggled before twirling around, explaining, “The zipper of the gown keeps sliding down. There’s a small hook that needs to be done, can you see it?” 

Jorah was glad her back was to him so that she couldn’t see his face as he answered, “Of course, Khaleesi.” He and Irri had both taken to using that title when other members of the court were not around. He realized he was taking a liberty by being so informal, but the title seemed to please her. Besides, she had given him leave to use her given name when the situation allowed as well, and Khaleesi seemed a step more respectful than that.

Jorah carefully moved aside her braid so that he could fix her zipper and find the small hook, feeling that his rough but usually dexterous hands were incredibly clumsy in that moment. As his calloused fingers brushed against her soft skin, his mind wandered treacherously.  _ You fool _ , he told himself,  _ haven’t you destroyed yourself enough with your lust? Because lust is what this is, nothing more.  _ Yet, his heart told him that he was wrong. _ May the Others take you _ , he scolded his heart.  _ You’ve led me astray before but never again.  _ His heart seemed to skip a beat in protest, and he realized that his hands were shaking slightly as his left hand lingered unnecessarily long on her back and his right hand moved to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear without his brain giving it leave to do so.  _ You should be grateful that she will never return it, desire or heart, whichever it may be, because you truly would lose your head this time She’s barely more than a child and a princess at that and you are nothing but her servant sworn to protect her, not to woo her, old man _ , he rebuked himself as his hands jerked away as if burnt and he took a step back _ . _

“Is that sufficient, Princess?” he asked her in as formal a voice as he could manage. 

“Yes, thank you, Ser,” she said turning around, her eyes taking in his computer screen briefly. “Do you need help with your bowtie?”  _ _

“If you know how, I’d be grateful. I’m afraid I never mastered the art.” Her sweet scent overwhelmed him as she reached up to his collar, straightened it, and began to deftly do up the tie. “How did you learn, Princess?” He tried to speak lightly but his voice came out gruff. 

“My good-sister, Elia taught me,” she said with a hint of sadness. “Where is your knight’s medal? You are still entitled to wear it, are you not?”

Jorah sighed before replying, “I am, but I lost it, Khaleesi. In Essos.” 

“And your ring too?” she said softly. 

“Aye,” was all the reply he could manage. “But that is dark talk for such a happy day, Princess.” He turned to his dresser and picked up a wrapped package. “I apologize, it is but a trifling thing, Daenerys, hardly worthy of being presented to a princess for such a momentous occasion, but it is all a former exile could afford. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.” Daenerys unwrapped the paper to reveal several old, leather bound books. “Songs and Histories of the Seven Kingdoms,” Jorah said. “Although I trust you’ll find the histories more entertaining and perhaps less true than those in your school books.” 

He had spent hours looking for the right gift on his last weekend off, but of course found that he could afford none of the exquisite jewelry which Lynesse had so favored. He had then thought to buy her something for her horses, but those were far outside of his budget as well. At last, he had settled on the old but finely scripted books and had been slightly pleased at his find, but once he returned to the Keep, he became embarrassed. It was tradition to present gifts at the ball, but he didn’t want anyone else to see them, and now he found himself holding his breath waiting for her judgement. 

She gave him a radiant smile. “Jorah, thank you from the bottom of my heart! You needn’t have gotten me anything, but this gift shows more thought than the finest jewels. I will start reading them tomorrow.” Jorah’s heart filled with joy. “I have something for you as well, Ser,” she said, pulling a silk pocket square of the exact blue of her dress out of her clutch. She folded it perfectly and then tucked it in his breast pocket, giggling at his stunned face. “You are to be my escort to the ball, you must have something to match me. You have been to balls before, have you not, Ser?’

“A few, Khaleesi, long ago,” he answered. 

“Did you enjoy them?” she asked.

In truth, he never had, and in fact, he had miserable memories from a few, but he knew she was nervous. “They were all grand affairs, Princess, but I have no doubt this will best them all,” he answered.

“I hope so,” Daenerys said with a smile. “Do you remember your own 17th Name Day? Did your father have a celebration for you, or did you get any memorable gifts?

“I was a plebe at the Academy, Princess. It was just another day. My cousins sent me a cake, but plebes were not allowed such luxuries, so I didn’t get to eat it,” he said, remembering how the upperclassmen had been particularly brutal in their hazing that day. His father hadn’t given him a name day gift in his entire life and had sent him nothing for this occasion either, but Dacey and Alysane had sent him a cake, not knowing that he couldn’t have it. When the upperclass cadets had discovered it in the package room, they’d attacked Jorah with a hail of physical and verbal abuse. They’d kept at it all through the midday meal and supper so that he didn’t get a bite to eat, and then they’d called him into one of their rooms and made him alternate between doing pushups and standing braced at attention while they ate the cake and laughed at the note in the card that had come with it. 

“Well, you must have some of the cake tonight!” Daenerys said. “Now excuse me, Ser, I shall go see if the girls are ready.”

___

Daenerys clutched Jorah’s arm tightly as they approached the traditional throne room, transformed into a banquet hall for the occasion. While she had chatted pleasantly when they first left her apartments, she had grown quiet as they drew closer. Jorah’s own stomach fluttered at the prospect of seeing many of the guests after so long, but he leaned down to speak softly to Daenerys, hoping to calm her nerves. “You look truly lovely tonight, Princess. You will stun every man in the hall with your beauty, and you will be the envy of every woman. I know it may not be comfortable with all eyes on you, but know that they want to please you most of all. You are their Princess, a woman grown now, and the young Lords will be fighting amongst themselves for your favor. I mean no disrespect to His Grace, your father or your brother, but you truly look a Queen tonight. You have nothing to fear.” They had reached the door, and Jorah stopped. For such an occasion, only the Kingsguard was fit to escort the Princess, along with her brother and father, into the hall, and they approached now. 

“Thank you, Ser,” Daenerys whispered. Jorah stepped back with a bow then held the bow as Aerys swept past, not giving him so much as a glance. 

He entered the throne room through a side door and made his way along the edge of the hall to stand by the wall near the high table. His eyes scanned the room, and he took in the many High Lords and Ladies present with a slight sigh. There was Robert Baratheon and his brother Renly, Varys and Lord Baelish, Tywin Lannister and Jamie and Cersei, Leyton Hightower, his former good-father, Mace Tyrell and his mother, and several Martells or Sands, he could never keep them straight. He also saw many of Daenerys’ generation, some whom he recognized and some whom he did not as they had been children when he had fled. His heart lightened slightly when he saw Grey, Missi, and Irri at a table near the back of the hall, but save them, he saw no one that he might consider an ally. He determined to stay in the background, unnoticed if at all possible, for the remainder of the night.

A trumpet blared and a hush fell over the room as King Aerys entered followed by his children and the knights of the Kingsguard in their dress white tunics and capes. Daenerys looked composed and regal, and Jorah felt a touch of pride as he continued to scan the room. As course after course of the meal was served, his stomach grumbled, and he felt slightly envious towards the Kingsguard who sat below the high table partaking in the feast. Various Lords and Ladies approached the head table to present gifts and speak briefly with the King and Daenerys, and Jorah observed the gift table start to twinkle as it was covered with jeweled, golden, and silver items as well as expensive garments and electronics. As the toasts began, Jorah shifted his feet and tried to discreetly stretch his back, as it had grown stiff after what seemed like hours in the same position. At long last, the toasts ended, the music began, and Jorah moved to quietly circle the room. 

He watched as Aerys shard the first dance with his daughter, and then Viserys, who seemed all charm at the moment, shared the second. He was startled when Irri suddenly appeared at his elbow, saying, “The Khaleesi says to make sure you eat. Come.” And she dragged him by his elbow through a side door into a hallway where serving staff bustled around in a staging area. Irri motioned to a table still heaped with food and Jorah quickly made himself a plate, touched by Daenerys’ thoughtfulness, wolfing it down before returning to the hall.

He was observing the dancers, noting that Daenerys was dancing with Joffrey Baratheon now, when he saw Varys approach. “Ser Jorah, what a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Is there something you want, my Lord, or are you here to make small talk?” Jorah responded, rather more brusquely than he intended.

“Always straight to the point. Well, my point is, your reports have been decidedly lacking and vague of late. You aren’t thinking of reneging on our agreement, are you?”

“Have I been late with a single report? I’ve told you of the Prince’s behavior and the movements of which I’m aware, what more do you want? They don’t have eventful lives,” Jorah responded hotly.

“Yes, your reports on the Prince seem accurate, if I am to believe that you see him as rarely as you claim. However, you have included next to nothing about the Princess for weeks now. In fact, I had to find out about several of her outings from other sources. That disappointed me.”

“What does the riding or shopping of the Princess have to do with the security of the realm?” Jorah snapped. “How is that any of your concern?”

Varys gave him a calm smile before saying softly, “I had heard that you had become a hard man with a cold heart after your wife left you, and that is why I sought you out for this job. That hasn’t changed, has it? Surely, your heart hasn’t softened for the Princess? I decide what is my concern, not you, and I tell you it is my concern. I am also telling you that you need to make an excuse to see the Prince more often. You do still want to go home, do you not, or have you decided you’d prefer to be short a head? Don’t think you will have a chance to flee this time. You’ll be arrested the second you leave the Keep if you renege. Do we understand each other?”

Jorah took a breath to calm his rage, before nodding stiffly, at which point, Varys tittered and walked away. He stood unmolested for some time, when he saw Daenerys come towards him. He was glad to see that she was smiling broadly. “Enjoying yourself, Princess?”

“I am, Ser, you were right, there was nothing to fear. Will you share the next dance with me?” Jorah’s face must have shown the shock he felt because she continued, “Please, Jorah, you’ve been my dearest friend these last months, won’t you share just one dance with me on my name day?”

“But Princess, I’m on duty, I-,” he began before she interrupted. 

“Look around you, Ser, there are guards everywhere. I give you leave to enjoy yourself tonight, Ser Meryn is, all the Kingsguard are. You may not be Kingsguard, but you are  _ my  _ guard, and I give you leave to drink champagne and dance and celebrate my name day.” 

Jorah stammered, “But there must be a whole host of young Lords waiting their turn, and I- I haven’t danced in years. I fear I don’t remember the steps, and I was a poor dancer even in my younger days. I’ll make a fool-.”

Daenerys cut him off again, saying with a mischievous smile, “Very well, I command it. I command you share this next dance with me.” Jorah could think of no argument to that, so he finally relented. He took off the belt holding his sword and gun and handed it to a nearby Unsullied, and at the start of the next song, he offered her his hand, which she took happily, and led her onto the dance floor. He started stiffly, holding her at a distance. Luckily, he vaguely remembered most of this particular dance, and the whisp of a girl in his arms discretely led him until he got the hang of it. As he grew more comfortable, he looked at her glowing face instead of watching his feet and applying a gentle pressure to the small of her back, he pulled her into an embrace that was slightly closer than necessary or even appropriate. For a few minutes, he was lost in her eyes, floating through the air, imagining a life where he could be happy and at peace. Then the song ended. He held her a few heartbeats longer before the spell broke as he heard a throat cleared behind him. He stepped back and turned to see a young man in the dress uniform of the one of the Winterfell regiments whom he recognized as Robb Stark smiling politely. “May I have this next dance, Princess?” the young Stark asked.

Jorah saw a flash of something in Daenerys’ eyes as she looked at Jorah before turning to Robb and smiling. “Of course, my Lord,” she said to Robb, before turning back to Jorah, saying, “Thank you for the dance, Jorah. Enjoy yourself, please. Have some champagne and some cake. I will see you later.” Then she took Robb’s hand and was gone.


	12. Winter Ball - December 1278 AC

** _Winter Ball - December 1278 AC _ **

_ Jorah was confident enough among the common girls on Bear Island. He had discovered he could quote poetry to them, and they’d think they were his own words, or regale them with exaggerated tales of the mainland, which they had never seen, and he’d seem the most charming, chivalrous, and sophisticated lad in all of the realm. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was to be their Liege Lord one day. He’d whisper, “My Lady,” to them as he kissed them out in the forest or in the cave where he used to play, far from prying eyes, or in the stables when it was too cold for the forest, and they’d allow him to steal touches under their clothes and some had even allowed him to take them all the way. He could never please his father or Aunt Maege, but once he had a little practice, he’d found that he could please these girls well enough. _

_ In the presence of high born Ladies though, he felt like a bumbling fool. He knew many of the other houses sneered at Bear Island’s backwater ways, and he’d heard young Lords and Ladies alike scoff at his distinct Island brogue. Jorah was a fine enough looking young man by Bear Island standards, but he’d become self conscious when, at the age of fifteen, a group of young, mainland Lords had mocked him as a bear when they’d seen his newly hairy chest and arms as he’d joined them for a swim at the lake in Torrhen’s Square on one of his visits there with his Aunt Maege, and as he’d considered it later, he thought the other high born lads he knew were all far more handsome, well groomed, and sophisticated than he. _

_ As he put the finishing touches on his cadet dress uniform in one of the chambers at Winterfell, he did not take part in the bantar of the other young men around him. He hated balls and dancing and would not have come at all if his father had not insisted that it was his duty as heir to Bear Island, and if his cousin, Dacey had not so enjoyed dancing and begged him to take her. Lord Rickard Stark had died just the year before, and this was Lord Brandon’s first time hosting the Winter Dance for the young Lords and Ladies of the North.  _

_ Jorah’s quietness did not shield him from the japes being thrown around. “Mormont, have you ever even lain with a girl? Or do the Southron Ladies, having never seen a bear, find you exotic? Perhaps they ask you to lick the honey from their hair?” crowed Wylis Manderly. He and most of the other young men here went to university at Winterfell or White Harbor or attended the Military Institute at the Dreadfort. Jorah was one of the few who had ventured south to the Westeros Military Academy at Harrenhal, and this did not help his cause today.  _

_ Medger Cerwyn laughed at that, saying, “I have no doubt he’s lain with some of those ugly wenches on Bear Island, they’re used to fucking bears.”  _

_ Jorah reddened before saying softly, “If you insult Bear Island again, I swear by the Old Gods, I’ll challenge you to single combat and kill you.”  _

_ That had drawn more laughs, and one of the Umbers whose name he didn’t know had scoffed, “That’s a bit of an overreaction, don’t you think, Mormont?” but the young Cerwyn had backed away and the banter shifted to the Karstarks instead. _

_ As the first hour of the dance had come to an end, Jorah was sulking around the edge, nursing his third cup of ale. He had talked briefly with Lord Eddard, mainly about his training and news of Bear Island, and he’d shared one dance with Lyanna Stark out of obligation, but otherwise, he’d kept mostly to himself, drinking and watching. He had tried to work up the nerve to ask several of the young Ladies to dance, but someone else beat him to it each time he finally had the courage to approach. He watched Dacey, who had spent the evening dancing gracefully with Starks, Cerwyns, Tallharts, and Umbers, approach him with a broad smile. “Brother, why must you brood so? This is meant to be a celebration. Why won’t you dance?” Jorah only gave a grunt in response, so Dacey continued, “Why don’t you ask Sarra Glover? She’s over there. Your father is very fond of Lord Glover, you know her, and I think she rather fancies you.”  _

_ It was true, he had spoken to her very briefly once on one of his trips to Deepwood Motte when his father visited with Lord Glover, and she had even visited Bear Island once with her father. He thought she may have even been a friend of sorts to Dacey and Alysane, but he did not know her well, and he didn’t know why she should fancy him. Of course, he knew the other girls at the dance not at all. Sarra was a rather plain girl, pale and thin with a very ordinary face, and Jorah had noticed that while Lord Brandon Stark, Lord Eddard, and young Lord Benjen had each danced with her once as hosts, she had otherwise sat on the side for most of the evening. He felt slightly sorry for her in that moment, but more, he felt confident that she of all the girls there would not refuse him. “Very well,” Jorah said, making Dacey smile. _

_ Sarra had answered shyly but was clearly pleased with Jorah’s request to dance, and they spent the first song timidly exchanging small talk as Jorah held her stiffly and at a distance. When it ended, Jorah asked if he could get her a drink, and he got her some punch and himself another ale. By this time, the ale was loosening his tongue a bit, and he found the conversation easier. He asked her to join him for another dance, and Sarra had beamed. He felt clumsy and unsure of many of the steps, but Sarra was kind and barely stopped smiling even when he accidentally stepped on her foot. After a while Jorah found himself holding her closer.  _

_ After their third dance, Jorah had asked if she would walk with him. He quickly downed another ale as he went to fetch her coat, then helped her into it and offered her his arm as they stepped out into the courtyard. After a brief walk, Jorah had turned, feeling suddenly bold, and asked, “May I kiss you, my Lady?”  _

_ “I’ve never been kissed, my Lord,” she’d said shyly.  _

_ “Jorah, call my Jorah. It would be my honor to be your first,” he’d responded. She’d nodded timidly, and he’d leaned down to kiss her. He’d started almost chastely and then deepened it, pulling her body against his when she didn’t seem to object.  _

_ Later, he’d tried to be gentle as he took her maidenhead against a stable wall. She’d come along willingly enough when he’d suggested it but was shaking like a leaf by the time he’d undone his trousers and started to lift her dress. “Sarra, are you sure?” he’d asked softly. She’d nodded but he thought he saw fear in her eyes. He’d nearly stopped himself then, thinking to tell her they should wait if she wasn’t ready, but his arousal won out. She’d cried out in pain when he’d first thrust into her, and he’d shushed her rather more harshly than he’d intended before whispering apologetically, “Sarra, please, we must be quiet, or we’ll be discovered.” She’d nodded again and bit her lip. He couldn’t bear to see her pain, so he buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing her there, and whispering sweet things until his kisses became pants, and his whispers became moans as his thrusts quickened and became harder and more erratic, she whimpering quietly the whole while. After he’d finished and come down from his high, he’d looked at her again and saw tears running down her cheeks. He’d felt terrible and tried to dry them with the rough pads of his thumbs and then offered her a tissue. He’d then handed her another tissue and looked away as she cleaned herself up, and then he’d helped her straighten up her dress and offered her his arm to escort her back inside. “Are you alright?” he’d asked gently as they walked, and she’d nodded, but her eyes told him that was not true. _

_ She’d excused herself for bed shortly thereafter, and he’d bowed and kissed her hand good night, and then he’d sat with some of the other young Lords drinking but not partaking in their conversations for the next few hours before retiring himself. The next morning as they broke their fast, he’d meant to say some kind words to her, but he’d felt shy and awkward and ashamed, not to mention hungover, and instead had sat far from her in the Great Hall and said not a word to her at all despite her desperate glances.  _

_ On the drive back to Bear Island, Dacey had looked at him sadly and said, “Brother, why did you-” but he’d cut her off sharply, saying, “It is none of your concern, cousin.” They’d driven the rest of the way to the ferry in silence, and Jorah had spent most of the next few days alone in the forest, taking only one of the dogs for company, despite the cold and despite Dacey’s offers to join him before returning to the Academy for his final term before graduation at the end of his winter leave.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jorah was rather inconsiderate in this chapter... I think Book!Jorah was probably rather inconsiderate in his younger days as well. Remember, he's looking for redemption because he has lots of regrets. In this chapter and in flashback chapters to come, I'm not trying to justify anything he does but simply trying to explain the thoughts in his own mind in my own fictional world.


	13. Chapter 8 - Daenerys - August 1300 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter but necessary for moving along some plot lines.

**Chapter 8 - Daenerys - August 1300 AC**

Robb Stark led her fluidly and confidently through the steps. She found him handsome and his smile gorgeous, and while she had not told Missi or Irri, he was the one she was most hoping to meet. They chatted pleasantly and easily, and when the song ended, Robb asked if he might share another dance later in the night. Daenerys enthusiastically told him that she looked forward to it.

Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne followed Robb. He complimented her beauty and grace, and asked her whom she liked best of her dancing partners so far. When she was noncommittal, he chuckled and said, “How long has your manservant been in love with you?” Noting her confusion, Oberyn nodded towards the side of the hall where she saw Jorah sipping champagne and listening to something Ser Jaime Lannister was saying.

Daenerys blushed and replied, “He’s not my manservant, and he’s not in love with me. He’s my knight and my friend.”  _ Perhaps I should not have danced with Ser Jorah if that was the impression it had given _ , she thought to herself. She hoped he would not get in trouble with her brother or Ser Barristan.

“Ah,” Oberyn replied knowingly, “but I can almost always tell what a man wants. He wears no medal, but he is a knight, you say? I would have thought I’d recognize him in that case. What is his name?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” Daenerys said.

“Indeed!” Oberyn said in surprise as he gave Jorah a second look. “And so it is. I did not recognize him after all these years, and with the beard. I had not thought to see him in Westeros again.” 

“You knew him before?” she asked. She suddenly had a million questions in mind.

“Yes, I did. We were in the army at the same time. He was a brave man. If he is your knight, I am sure you are in good hands.” He gave Ser Jorah one last look before changing the subject to his sister Elia, and Daenerys forgot her questions as she knew Oberyn had loved his sister.

When the dance was over, he bowed, and then Oberyn’s nephew made his move. Her father had told her that she must speak to Quentyn Martell, and he was polite enough and handsome, but she thought him little more than a boy compared to Robb. However, she reminded herself that he was kin to her dear good-sister Elia, so she smiled at him and was perfectly pleasant throughout their dance though she found him stiff and mechanical both in his dancing and in his conversation. She was also mortified when he spoke of marriage and feared that her father and his father may have made plans behind her back. 

She knew that her parents had not wed for love, but they were the last to have followed the old Targaryen custom of keeping the bloodline as pure as possible which with Rhaegar was to be no more. She also understood from Elia that her marriage to Rhaegar had been at least partially politically motivated, and they had not exactly been in love on the day they wed but that their love had grown over time. However, Daenerys knew that Viserys had been allowed to date whom he pleased and was not aware of any match made for him, and though she knew she would need her father’s ultimate approval, she hoped that she would be allowed to marry for love. After all, even among the High Lords, arranged marriages were no longer acceptable. Her dance with Quentyn worried her though, and she was glad when it was done.

After honoring a litany of other young Lords and gentlemen- Theon Greyjoy, some Lannister cousins, Ramsay Bolton, who was one of the few Northern Lords besides Robb in attendance, and a charming young Tyroshi officer in King’s Landing as part of a training program named Daario Naharis, to name a few- as well as some of the older noblemen, she was pleased to see Robb again. They shared another dance and then stepped aside for some refreshments and she soon found herself slightly tipsy from champagne. 

As the night went on, she graced all of the High Lords who asked with dances, and ignored none of their sons, but she enjoyed her time with Robb the most, and she thought she might have been falling in love. 

  
  



	14. Consequences - February 1279 AC

** _Consequences - February 1279 AC _ **

_ Jorah had excelled at the Westeros Military Academy, academically and militarily if not socially. Jorah would have preferred attend university at White Harbor, but that was out of the question, so in a small act of rebellion, he had applied to the Academy. His father would have preferred he attend the Military Institute at the Dreadfort as he had and his father before him, but he had been proud of Jorah’s acceptance nonetheless and gifted him with an ornate dagger on the day he left Bear Island. It was one of the few gifts his father had ever given him, and Jorah cherished it with his life.  _

_ He had entered the Academy at the age of 16 and was thus a year younger than most of his classmates, but he was strong and athletic, and the hardness instilled in him by his father had allowed him to survive the brutal hazing of plebe year more successfully than most. He seemed to never tire during ruck marches, earned top marks at the rifle range and in swordsmanship, kept his room and himself squared away at all times, and maintained his military bearing as upperclass cadets screamed in his face and put him through every form of physical and mental punishment they could imagine as they attempted to break him. Having grown up tramping through the forests of Bear Island, he did far better in field exercises than many of the cadets who’d grown up in the comforts of more urban environments, and since he’d recited memorized passages to his exacting father since he was a boy, he had no problem passing the “knowledge” plebes were required to recite to upperclass cadets on command. Although he was marginal as a football player, the most popular sport in the South, it helped that even as a plebe he’d starred in inter-company rugby and boxing matches. Soon, he’d earned the grudging respect, if not the friendship, of classmates and the upperclasses alike.  _

_ _

_ Jorah had found the academic coursework at the Academy tedious and uninspiring. Most courses were in the maths and sciences, which had always been his least favorite subjects, as well as geography, topography, navigation, and there were endless courses and lectures on military courtesy and customs and chivalry, while the books and lectures for military history courses were dreadfully dull. However, Jorah studied hard and relished the few opportunities he had to take classes in literature, languages, and psychology. After his plebe year, when he was granted day or weekend passes, he’d occasionally join his classmates on their trips to the pubs in the town of Harrenhal or as far away as Saltpans- he had developed quite a taste for drink as he’d found that it lessened his shyness- but just as often, he went off by himself, and explored the ruins of the old castle or rented a boat to sail out to the Isle of Faces, and he’d read or daydream in the silence. The other cadets, mostly from the South, ribbed Jorah about his sullen nature and love of reading and shyness around girls. They also mocked his accent and his lack of social refinement and his face, which had a dark shadow within hours of shaving that was the cause of most of the few demerits that he received during his entire time at the Academy. He had wished he could fit into the easy comradery of the other cadets more easily but despite it all, he did make a few friends. _

_ By his First Class year, he was held in high esteem within his cadet company, and he ranked near the top of his class. The plebes respected him because he was firm but fair and led by example and did not take part in the tortuous hazing that some upperclass cadets preferred. The Second Class respected him because, while their superior, he had treated them fairly as plebes, and they found he was generous with his time if they needed help with their coursework or military training. His own classmates respected him because he was one of them, having endured what they had endured and more, and despite his quirks, he was one of the strongest and most loyal men they had ever met.  _

_ He had been dreadfully homesick when he’d first arrived and even now, he often felt a longing for his island. He had missed the forest and streams, the sea and climate, and his family, Dacey most of all. Yet, as he started his final term as a cadet, he’d begun to feel almost nostalgic, thinking he might miss the place, although he looked forward to graduation and the start of his career as an officer, though he had not yet submitted his duty station rankings. He was torn between requesting a Northern unit which would take him closer to home or a more glamorous Southron unit which would keep a distance between himself and his father and also perhaps allow for more immediate glory and promotions. Given his class rank and his score in physical assessments, he was nearly guaranteed his top choice, and the decision weighed on him.  _

_ \--- _

_ Jorah had just returned from the rifle range one dreary February evening just a few months shy of graduation as he continued to ponder his duty station rankings, due in just a few days, when a cadet told him that his company commander wanted to see him in his office. He’d checked his uniform carefully before quickly heading down the hall of the barracks to the office. When he’d entered the office to report, he had been surprised and concerned to see his father there in his Night’s Watch field uniform. “Cadet Mormont,” his commander had said. “Your father is here on urgent business. I’ll leave you to speak alone.” Then he’d left them, closing the door behind him.  _

_ “Father, what’s wr-” Jorah had begun before being interrupted by a backhand across his face. The blow caused Jorah to bite his tongue, and he’d tasted blood in his mouth. Lifting his hand to his cheek, he’d looked at his father with bewilderment. When his father still didn’t speak, Jorah tried again, “Father, I don’t understand, what have I done?” _

_ His father finally responded, his voice black with rage, “You would dare dishonor my father’s name? You would dare dishonor the Glover’s? You would dare dishonor that poor girl? You and your rash decisions. You fool!”  _

_ “Father, I can explain,” Jorah had blurted in a panic, thinking to deny it. “We danced, and then I took her for a walk to get some air, that’s all. I did nothing to dishonor her.” _

_ Jeor Mormont had raised his hand again, and Jorah flinched. “And now you would lie to your Lord father,” he’d growled in a dangerous voice. “You took her maidenhead in a stable like she was a broodmare and then didn’t speak another word to her. Do not deny it again.” _

_ Jorah had hung his head, wondering if it was Dacey or Sarra who had told, and sullenly replied, “I am sorry, Father.” _

_ “Look me in the eye when you speak to me, boy,” his father had bellowed. _

_ Jorah had raised his eyes and said, “I am sorry, Father, I do not deny it. I’ll write her an apology if you’d like. But I’m not sure why you had to come all this way just for that. I’m not the first young Lord to have a quick shag with-” _

_ His father had struck him again at those last words, the blow nearly knocking him off his feet. Then his father had barked, “She is with child, boy.” Jorah’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth hung agape.  _

_ “You were fool enough to not even take precautions against that when you couldn’t keep your cock in your pants,” his father had continued. “Perhaps I am partly to blame for turning a blind eye to your antics with the Island girls, but as none of them have turned up pregnant, I thought you at least knew enough to prevent it. As far as Lord Glover is concerned, you have two options. You can marry Lady Sarra, or you can fight his son in single combat. As that ladder choice will harm Lady Sarra further no matter the result, I am giving you one option. You will marry Sarra Glover. Let me be clear on this though, I am more ashamed of you for your disrespect towards Lady Sarra than I am about the fact that you got her pregnant. And if I find out you treated those Island girls thus, I will strike you again. I thought I raised you to be a better man.” _

_ “Father,” Jorah had stammered, “Father, I- I’m sorry, I meant no disrespect, but must I marry her? Isn’t there another way? I don’t-” He had almost spoken of the lack of love, but he hadn’t dared finish his sentence knowing what his father thought of love. _

_ His father had laughed bitterly at that. “There was another way, boy. You could have kept your cock in your pants or taken care of it with your hands if you had to. You could have shown the proper respect due to a Lady. We are past other ways. You will do your duty to her and to your child. You will marry her immediately after your graduation. If you refuse, then you are no son of mine.” _


	15. Chapter 9 - Jorah - August 1300 AC

**Chapter 9 - Jorah - August 1300 AC**

As Jorah had feared, he had been spotted by many when he’d danced with the Princess. Almost as soon as he’d retrieved his sword and gun and gone back to a spot by the wall, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard had approached with a dwarf who could only be his brother, Tyrion, in tow. “I know you from someplace,” said the Kingsguard. “I know I’ve seen you on the grounds with the Princess, but just tonight, I realized I recognize you from someplace else, I just can’t quite recall.”

“You were a few years behind me at the Academy, and we met again in Lannisport in the leadup to the assault on Pyke.”

“Ah, of course, you’re the bastard who landed that one lucky punch to knock me out in that boxing tournament that was put on for the enlisted men’s entertainment. Ser Jorah Mormont, isn’t it?” Jaime said with recognition dawning on his face. “I’d heard you had been executed or banished or some such thing.” Jorah clenched his jaw, attempting to hide his anger at the slight to his own skill in the ring and the never ending reminders of his own exile.

“This is the man who beat the great Jaime Lannister in the ring?” piped up Tyrion. “Well done!” He grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing server, forcibly shoved one of the glasses into Jorah’s hand, clinked his glass to Jorah’s, and swallowed most of his in one gulp.

Jorah took a polite sip as Jaime insisted, “But what are you doing here? I truly heard that Ned Stark had taken your head or at least that there was a warrant for it. Didn’t you desert your unit and run to Essos after some nonsense with your Hightower wife?” 

Jorah tried to think of an answer and was slightly relieved when Tyrion spoke again before he had a chance to reply. “I suppose I will be seeing more of you soon as I’m to be the Princess’s new private secretary and advisor,” said the dwarf.

Jorah raised an eyebrow in surprise, saying, “Does the Princess know that?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s been informed, the King made the decision last week,” said Tyrion as he absentmindedly looked around the room.

“I’d think she might have told me if that was so,” Jorah countered.

At that, Tyrion fixed Jorah with an incredulous look, and scoffed, “Is it common for Royalty to consult with their bodyguards about their advisors or affairs of state?” 

Jamie laughed and said, “Well, is it common for Royalty to dance with their bodyguards at their Name Day balls? He is still an anointed knight, Tyrion. But Ser Jorah, you must excuse me, my sister is calling. Come on, Tyrion.” Tyrion had given Jorah an odd look before saying he’d see him later and following after his brother. Jorah unclenched his jaw and drained the rest of his glass. 

A few moments later, Oberyn Martell approached. Jorah gave him a slight bow. He couldn’t for the life of him remember how one was supposed to address a Prince of Dorne, so he stayed silent. “Ser Jorah,” Oberyn greeted him enthusiastically. “I had not thought to see you again in this life. You look well, Ser, only a little worse for wear after all of these years.” 

“You look in excellent health as well, my Lord,” replied Jorah, hoping that he had not caused offense though he was sure the title was wrong. He was also confused as to why Oberyn spoke as if he knew him though he was careful not to show it.

“You guard the Princess now, I hear?” Oberyn asked. Jorah nodded in response. “I think she is in good hands. Of course, if Lady Lynesse were my sister, I would be honor bound to kill you, but when I read of it in the papers, I could not help but question its validity. I said to myself, ‘No, that is not the man I met in Astapor, that fierce but honorable officer.’ You did run from Lord Stark though, so perhaps I was a bad judge of character. Of course, you had another wife when we met in Astapor. Sarra was her name, was it not? I was sorry to learn of her death. You do recall we met before, no?” He must have noticed Jorah’s brow knit in confusion, as he could no longer keep his face impassive.

“I do not, my Lord,” Jorah responded genuinely baffled as to how this man knew so much about him. He wondered if he was friends with Varys.

“Yes, yes, we did meet. But I understand why it may have escaped your memory, it was quite a chaotic day, but you saved my life once, my life and the lives of several of my men. Regardless of your crimes, Ser Jorah, I am in great debt to you. As long as you do not lay hands on a woman that I love, know that you have a friend in House Martell. Perhaps you will even meet my daughters someday, for they owe their own lives to you as well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Lord Tywinn about a small matter.” And then he was gone, and Jorah, who had no desire to think of Astapor just now, could not help but try to recall their previous meeting though he failed in this. 

As the night progressed, he found himself forced to make small talk with Lord Baelish, Lord Tyrell, and several Lords of smaller houses whom he’d pretended he knew and all of whom seemed to mock him, and he found himself bristling with anger. He considered having more champagne but told himself he could not make a fool of himself, not this evening. He was bound to lose his temper and punch some High Lord in the face and thus lose his life and ruin Daenerys’ day. He thought he might fear the latter most. Besides, he’d noticed Viserys acting increasingly erraticly as the evening went on, and he determined that he would stay sober in order to see Daenerys safely back to her apartments at the end. Instead of champagne, he settled for several large slices of cake though they did little to improve his state of mind. His only relief came in watching Daenerys who had not stopped smiling that he had seen, and also in watching Missandei and Grey, for that was true love if he’d ever seen it.

At long last, the ball drew to a close. He asked Irri to tell Daenerys that he would be waiting for her outside on the steps and slipped out the side door. As he waited, beginning to sweat in the summer heat which felt stifling even late at night after an evening spent in air conditioning, he sensed someone moving towards him. He turned and grimaced as he saw Lord Leyton Hightower, whom he’d managed to avoid all night, approaching, his face red, and Barristan Selmy a step behind. He closed his eyes for a brief second to try to calm himself and to make his face a stolid mask.


	16. Marriage - May 1279 AC

** _Marriage - May 1279 AC_ **

_ Jorah had sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror, adjusting his brand new 1st Reach Cavalry dress tunic carefully.  _

_ “You look very dashing, brother,” Dacey had said behind him, “Even if we’d all prefer to see you in the Black of the Watch or the Grey of the Wolfswood rather than that pretty green and gold Southron outfit.” _

_ Jorah had glared and retorted, “It’s an elite unit, Dacey, and highly selective. I will see much more action with them than if I stayed in the North. It will be good for my career.” _

_ “Oh, of course, your career,” sneered Dacey. “Nevermind that you’re to have a new wife and a babe soon to follow as long as you can ride in your parades and win medals and glory in Astapor.” _

_ “You sound like Father now. He’ll never forgive me for not joining his precious Watch.”  _ Nor for what I’ve done to Lady Sarra _ , he’d thought. Jorah hadn’t felt like arguing, not now, so he’d quickly changed the subject. “You know I’d prefer have you stand by me today. I wish it was permitted.”  _

_ “For fuck’s sake, Jorah, I know that, but you should be honored that Lord Eddard came all this way and has offered to stand as your best man.” _

_ “I don’t want to get married, Dacey. I don’t know how to be a husband. What if I’m no good?” he’d said, voicing his fears to the only person he knew who might listen. _

_ Dacey had given him a long look and then squeezed his shoulder lightly before they were interrupted by Ned Stark. She never answered his question. _

_ \--- _

_ Jorah had seen Sarra just once since their fateful encounter at Winterfell. During his brief Spring leave in March, he’d made his way to Deepwood Motte and found himself kept waiting in the entrance hall of Glover Keep for near half an hour before he was summoned. Lord Glover sat sternly in his great chair, and his eldest son, Robett, sat beside him, his sword held unsheathed across his lap in an open threat. _

_ “My Lord,” Jorah had said, forcing himself to look the man in the eye and keep his voice steady, “I’ve come to ask your permission to marry your daughter, Lady Sarra.” _

_ “Have you now? She was to go to university at White Harbor this fall if not for you. She had her whole life ahead of her, but no longer. I’d have thought a son of Jeor Mormont would have a bit more honor, but I won’t blame this on your Lord father, only on you. How do I know you will not treat her just as dishonorably when she is your wife?” _

_ His father had told him that Lord Glover would require an apology as a point of pride, but that he wanted his daughter wed before the child came more than anyone, so Jorah had swallowed his own pride and responded humbly, “I apologize for the offense I have caused, and I swear to you that I will never dishonor Lady Sarra again. I will cherish her as my wife and always treat her with the gentleness and respect that she is due.” He had rehearsed this apology in his mind at least a dozen times on the train ride, and he was relieved that he spoke it without a stammer.  _

_ “Very well,” Lord Glover had said after glaring at him for a few moments longer. “You have my permission, boy. She’ll make a good wife and a good Lady of Bear Island when you’re time comes. I’m sure you’d prefer a beauty, but she’s docile and obedient. She’ll do as you say, although you’ve already discovered that. But if you take advantage of that a second time or ever dishonor her again, Robett will see to it that you regret it. Go wait in the courtyard. She’ll be out soon.” _

_ So Jorah had gone outside and pulled up the collar of his cadet duty overcoat against the chill. When at last he had seen Sarra, she looked pale and sickly and even more plain than he’d remembered. “My Lord,” she’d said timidly in greeting.  _

_ As Jorah had bowed and replied, “Please call me Jorah, my Lady,” he had no doubt that Lord Glover was watching from some window.  _

_ There was an awkward pause, and then Jorah had offered her his arm and walked with her to a bench. “Are you well, my Lady?” He’d glanced at her belly which had no swell that he could see and continued, “Does the baby cause you any discomfort?”  _

_ Some, she’d replied, but no more than she could manage, and he could call her Sarra. _

_ The bench was slightly damp from melted snow, so he’d taken off his overcoat and covered it so that she could sit. He’d sat beside her and continued, “I must apologize for- well- my behavior was not honorable the last time I saw you. I was unkind, and I am sorry. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?” She’d nodded shly.  _

_ Then he’d taken a deep breath and dropped to his knee, pulling out the family ring that his father had given him for this occasion as he felt snow melt beneath his knee and soak his pants. “Sarra, I- I would be- well- I would be most happy if you’d agree to be my Lady wife. I wish to prove to you that I am a man of honor, and I swear to you that I will be a good husband to you and father to our child for all my days. Will you do me this honor?” She’d accepted with a small smile, and while Jorah had been relieved, he’d realized that a part of him had hoped she’d refuse him. _

_ Then he’d asked after the baby a bit more, and when she’d questioned if he’d prefer a girl or boy, he said it made no matter as long as the child, and the mother, were healthy. She told him she hoped to give him a son, and he couldn’t help but smile for he’d slowly warmed to the idea of being a father, though he was also slightly terrified. He would have stayed longer, but he’d had to leave in order to make his train back to Harrenhal. He’d kissed her cheek and told her he would write, but he’d left with a feeling of dread in his heart for he had not warmed to the idea of marriage.  _

_ \--- _

_ Now, just two days after his graduation from the Academy, he’d found himself standing beneath the weirwood tree on Bear Island, Lord Eddard Stark beside him, and he’d watched Sarra, a swell now clearly visible in her belly, come towards him with her father. He’d felt as if he was at a funeral, but he’d forced a slight smile onto his face as he took her hands, even as her father glared at him. _

_ Jorah had recited his vows before the Old Gods and men, “I am hers and and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days” and exchanged rings. Then he’d placed a green and black cloak over her shoulders, bringing her under his protection, they’d kissed, lightly, chastely, and the ceremony was done. Jorah was 19, and Sarra was 17.  _

_ A small dinner had followed. Aside from the Glovers, Mormonts, and Lord Eddard, who represented his brother, Lord Tallhart and his wife were the only other nobles in attendance. None of Jorah’s Academy classmates had made the trip in part because he’d only invited a few, and in part because they’d all had to ship off to their new duty stations. A handful of Sarra’s schoolmates were there, as well as a few of his father’s friends from the Watch, and the remaining guests came from the Glover and Mormont household guards and staffs.  _

_ Aside from partaking in the traditional first dance, Jorah had sat at the head table feeling miserable as he’d watched others make merry. He’d tried to be pleasant and cheerful at first, for Sarra’s sake, but with each passing minute, he’d fallen deeper into despair. Sarra had sat by his side for a time watching him nervously before Dacey and Alysane took her by the hands, Dacey shooting him a dirty look over her shoulder, and skipped off with her laughing, leaving Jorah to brood alone. Jorah had fully intended to drink as much as possible, it was his wedding after all, but after his fourth ale, he’d found his summons being ignored. Finally, he’d grabbed a passing serving girl by the arm, and demanded she refill his tankard. “I’m sorry, m’Lord,” she’d squeaked, “but your Lord father forbid us serve you anymore.” So Jorah had been forced to endure the rest of the evening without the comfort of his cups. _

_ When the reception had ended and he prepared to leave the hall with Sarra, his father had pulled him aside. “This is your fault, not hers. She is your wife now. You will treat her kindly, do you understand me?”  _

_ “Yes, Father,” he’d responded automatically.  _

_ Alone at last, Jorah had felt shy and Sarra had barely been able to look at him. He’d realized that she was perhaps as miserable as he. There was a chill in the air, so he’d gone to the fireplace to build a fire, and as he stoked it, he’d found his mind wandering to one of the pretty village girls he’d been with some years ago whom he’d briefly been in love with, and to a beautiful highborn girl from Saltpans whom he’d met at the Academy and rather fancied but never had the courage to court, but then he’d forced his mind back to the present, telling himself that he must be a good husband. Sarra carried his child after all, and he may not love her, but he already loved the baby within her. Besides, at the very least, this was the one part of his wedding day that he might enjoy, though she was no beauty.  _

_ Finally, he’d turned and approached his wife. Taking her hands, he’d asked if he might help her out of dress. While she’d nodded, he’d seen that she was shaking as he’d begun to clumsily undo the ties and clasps of her dress and pushed if off her shoulders, so he’d stopped and turned her to face him, reminding himself that this was his fault and that he must be kind. “Sarra, I am sorry for- I should have made your first time special. I hope tonight you can see how it might be. But we needn’t do anything if you don’t wish. We can just go to sleep tonight if you’d prefer.”  _

_ Her eyes had widened at his statement before she’d looked at her feet, and she’d whispered, “But I must, my Lord! My mother says it is my duty as your wife. Do you not desire me?”  _

_ Jorah had sighed and gently lifted her chin so that she’d meet his eyes, and he saw tears threatening to overflow. “Sarra, it isn’t meant to be a duty. It is meant to be- Of course I desire you, but only if you want to. I don’t wish to force myself on you.”  _

_ “I want to. I wish to please you, my Lord,” she’d said.  _

_ Jorah had not been convinced, but despite her plainness, his cock had reacted to her half dressed state and anticipation of what was to come, and it was his wedding night after all, so he’d nodded, and then he’d continued to take off her dress and then her undergarments, and she’d begun to tremble again. When at last she stood naked, covering herself with her arms and hands, he took in the swell of her belly and placed his hand on it gently. He’d then leaned down and kissed it, and then kissed her cheek, before lifting her into the bed and covering her with a blanket. He’d begun to undress himself, and he could see Sara’s wide eyes take in his broad, hairy chest before she looked away blushing when he’d begun to remove his pants.  _

_ He’d climbed into the bed next to her and held her tense but shaking body to him and tried whispering sweet things in her ears as he began to caress her. When his fingers gently touched her lower lips, she’d flinched and grabbed his hand, and when he’d trailed kisses down her body, she’d allowed him at first but tensed and clapped her legs shut in shock when he’d attempted to kiss her there. “Please don’t, my Lord,” she’d whimpered. He’d tried to tell her it would make it more enjoyable for her, but she’d been so mortified by the idea that he’d given up, and with a sigh, he’d gently coaxed her legs apart again and settled himself between them, taking care not to put his weight on her belly. When he’d first entered her, she’d cried out in pain, and he did not know what he’d done wrong because she was no maiden. He’d thought perhaps it was because she was with child and had wondered why his father hadn’t told him if there was some special way he was supposed to lie with a pregnant woman. He’d tried to be as gentle as he could as he’d begun to move slowly, but she’d continued to whimper. “Do you want me to stop?” he’d asked, but she’d shook her head no. So he’d continued, and soon he’d lost himself in the pleasure, his thrusts becoming faster and harder than he’d intended, his eyes closed, his mind in a haze, and only when he’d finished, had he seen that she was crying silently. _

_ He’d rolled off immediately and kissed her cheek gently, and held her close and caressed her belly, apologizing again and again and asking if there was anything he could do.  _

_ “It’s a boy, my Lord,” she’d replied. _

_ “What?” he’d responded dumbly.  _

_ “The baby, my Lord, it’s a boy,” she’d said.  _

_ And Jorah had felt himself grinning as he’d whispered, “That is wonderful news, sweetheart, but please, you must call me Jorah.”  _

_ The next morning, he’d bid his family and his wife farewell, and stepped onto the ferry, bound for his regiment and then for Astapor. _

_ \--- _

_ He’d written often throughout his first deployment, and thus he and Sarra had begun to get to know each other, but the mail was infuriatingly slow and was frequently lost and then rerouted. He’d often receive letters weeks or even months after they’d been written. When mail call finally came to his unit in early-August after nearly a month with no news from home, he had barely been able to see that his men had received their letters and packages before rushing to his room in the officers’ quarters with his own. He’d forced himself to put aside the letters from Dacey, Aunt Maege, and Alysane to read those from Sarra first, and he quickly put those from his wife in order by the date of their postmark. He had worked his way to mid July when his breath caught in his throat. _

_ “I am sorry, my husband,” the letter read in his wife’s fine script, “but I have lost our son. I went into labor far too soon, and the maester says he never drew a breath. Forgive me, Jorah, for failing you. I pray to the Old Gods that when you return to me, safe and sound, we can try again.”  _

_ He’d wanted to cry then, but he was a Mormont, a soldier, an officer, and he was meant to be hard and strong, so he’d stifled the tears.  _


	17. Chapter 10 - Daenerys - August 1300

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter... still building backstory. Modern day events will pick up more soon.

**Chapter 10 - Daenerys - August 1300**

As the night wound down, and Daenerys said her farewells to her many guests, she felt exhilarated. The evening had been perfect, at least nearly so. Of course, Viserys had acted almost jealous of her later in the night, and at one point, he’d pinched her hard as he hadn’t dared to do since Ser Jorah had become her guard though she’d slapped his hand away. He’d left her alone for the rest of the night although she’d heard him making crude jokes, seemingly about her, to a few of the young Lords later, but she did her best to ignore him and also to ignore the nagging worry about Quentyn Martell. Surely her father would not force her to marry someone if she did not wish it. She was thrilled to learn that Robb would be in King’s Landing for at least the next few months, as his Lord father had sent him to act in his stead on the Small Council, and she told him she hoped to see him soon. 

Ser Boros escorted her through the door before bowing to take his leave within sight of Ser Jorah, and Daenerys headed towards him. She stopped short when she saw him standing stiffly, his hands clenched at his side and a dark look on his face, with Lord Hightower and Ser Barristan speaking heatedly to him. Lord Hightower appeared enraged, and as she edged closer, she heard part of his rant.

“- to my Lynesse! But now you’d have the honor of dancing with the Princess? You’d flaunt your return to Westeros when you should be rotting in the ground? You? You disgrace of a man!” 

Ser Barristan tried to interrupt, “My Lord, it was most inappropriate of Ser Jorah to dance with the Princess, and I assure you, he will be reprimanded for that, but you must calm yourself. He is in the service of the Royal Household now and-”

“And how did you slither your way into the Royal Household, Mormont? Did you somehow seduce the Princess like you managed to seduce my sweet, innocent Lynesse before you showed your true face? I’ve always suspected you forced yourself on her to begin with and she was too naive to even realize it, and once you had her trapped as her Lord husband, you truly began your abuse before she finally escaped you in Lys.”

“Lynesse knows the truth of it all, I’ll not explain myself to you, my Lord,” Jorah answered in a cold voice.

“You admitted to it in your bloody divorce papers!” Lord Hightower screamed, and Jorah clenched his jaw and looked away as Lord Hightower continued his rant. “Ser Barristan, he is a man of no honor, a cold and violent brute, a rabid bear who brutalized his gentle wife continually throughout their marriage with no remorse, and I fear he will turn on the Princess with no provocation. I wouldn’t allow him to guard a brothel, nevermind a Princess.”

“Lord Hightower, you must calm down, this is not-” began Ser Barristan before he abruptly went silent, bowing as he spotted Daenerys. Lord Hightower and Jorah both turned then and saw her, and Daenerys saw Ser Jorah’s face, which had been red with anger a moment before, turn pale. 

“I hope you enjoyed your ball, Princess,” Ser Barristan said. “I will not detain your PSO any longer so that he may escort you back to your apartments. You must be tired after the long evening. Ser Jorah, I will deal with you later. Lord Hightower, if you’d like to continue this conversation, you may come to my office.” 

As Ser Barristan strode away with Lord Hightower reluctantly following, Ser Jorah bowed and offered her his arm, his blue eyes wary. He started to say something but then seemed to think better of it and was silent. 

Daenerys took his arm hesitantly, her high spirits quickly crashing down. She did not want to ruin what had been such a wonderful night by dwelling on this subject, but she felt sickened by what she had heard.  _ Surely my sweet bear never did such a thing,  _ she thought to herself,  _ but why are the rumors and accusations so persistent? _ As they walked, she glanced at him again and saw him watching her cautiously. It looked as if he wanted to say something but he seemed to be gauging her reaction. She thought perhaps he did not know how much she had heard, and she did not know if she wanted to know more. 

She decided she would broach it in the morning, so in a voice full of forced cheer, she said, “You were right about the night, Ser, I had such a lovely time.” And she continued to tell him about all of the people she had met and the dances that she’d enjoyed and the gifts that she’d received.

When they got back to her apartments, she realized that because she had given both Irri and Missi the night off, she’d need Ser Jorah’s help to undo the back of her gown again and help her unzip. He blushed when she asked his help and averted his eyes, but he did as she asked before wishing her sweet dreams as she went into her room. As she prepared for bed, she tried to forget about what she overheard, and she fell asleep dreaming of dancing and also of Jorah.

  
  
  



	18. Accused  - February 1292 AC

** _Accused - February 1292 AC_ **

_ Jorah had sighed and rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin, fighting the urge to pour himself another whiskey from the decanter on the nearby table, as Lynesse continued to rant at him. He thought it must have been going on for at least an hour, and he had feared that everyone in Mormont Keep must be able to hear. Jorah and Lynesse had been married for just over two years, and while he loved his Lady wife with all of his heart and frequently told himself that he was as happy as he had ever been, he could not deny that sometimes she wore on him.  _

_ Lord Hightower had been less than pleased when Jorah had come to him the morning after they were engaged to ask for her hand, and Jorah had feared that he might refuse. While it was no longer the custom for even the High Lords to arrange marriages for their children, it was still widely accepted that the Lady’s Lord father must at least consent to the match. However, Lynesse, who had insisted on coming with Jorah, begged her father to permit it, saying she loved him and desired nothing more than to marry him, and at last, he had given his blessing. Jorah’s own father had said, “Your damned fool’s love will destroy you,” when he’d called him, and Ned Stark had questioned if it was a wise match when he’d notified his Liege Lord. Jorah had been hurt by his father’s criticism and bristled at that of Lord Stark who was only a few years older than he, but he told himself they did not matter because Lynesse loved him and he loved her.  _

_ They had been married in the sept in Oldtown before the New Gods just a few weeks later. It had been a grand affair, and the feast that had followed was even grander, although only Dacey from his family had attended. Dacey had said it was due to the short notice that the others did not come, but he did not entirely believer her. Lord Hightower had wanted nothing but the best for his daughter and footed most of the bill, but Jorah had grit his teeth as he’d paid for the wedding bands, a bridal cloak made of the finest silks and satins, the rehearsal dinner, and their honeymoon. Jorah had picked a simple band for himself, but Lynesse had chosen an extravagant ring to match the new engagement ring that she’d requested, and while Jorah had hoped for a short honeymoon within driving distance, perhaps someplace like Starfall, Lynesse had presented him with a week long itinerary at the Water Gardens. When he saw her smile of anticipation, he had been powerless to refuse. He had taken out a loan for the expenses and told himself that it was worth it for her.  _

_ Their honeymoon had been a dream. They had spent much of it in bed or on other surfaces within their suite and most of the rest on the beach or by the pool. Jorah had given little thought to the cost when they went out for supper at extravagant restaurants of Lynesse’s choosing. In fact, his pride swelled as he was able to show off the beauty on his arms among the elite of Westeros who were eating there while on holiday. He’d taken her on a day cruise on a yacht as well, and Lynesse had looked absolutely stunning in her bikini. While normally he would have been protective and preferred his woman to cover up a bit more in public, in this instance he’d felt only joy as he saw other men’s eyes on his wife as she sat in his lap or snuggled against him, though the closeness made him wonder how he was to wait until they got back to their room to ravish her again. He’d felt particularly smug when he’d seen a former Academy classmate, some cousin of the Lannisters, who’d frequently mocked him both for his relative poverty and for his lack of charm with girls. The man’s mouth had fallen open in shock when Jorah had introduced Lynesse as his wife as she clung to him in all of her beauty.  _

_ Jorah had feared that after his recent stint of combat during the Greyjoy Rebellion, his demons from Astapor which he’d only barely kept under wraps for years would reemerge with a new fury, but he’d been relieved to discover that the joy in his heart combined with their frequent love making kept those feelings at bay and even allowed him to sleep somewhat peacefully at night. When his nightmares did come from time to time, he was further relieved to find that the physical symptoms- night sweats, tremors, thrashing and crying out- which had plagued him for years, only rarely exhibited themselves when he shared his bed with his beautiful wife.  _

_ After the honeymoon, they had then settled briefly in Highgarden, as Jorah finished his duties during the final month of his posting with his cavalry unit. He’d continued to spend far more than he’d wanted as Lynesse so enjoyed the luxuries available in the city. He had told Lynesse that he’d requested a permanent transfer to the Wolfswood Regiment in the North so that he could better fulfill his duties as Lord and she as Lady of Bear Island, and she had seemed excited by the prospect of being the Lady of the Island though she’d never been to the North. In truth, Jorah had missed home for far too long and simply wanted to return to his precious island. He had also hoped her spending might decrease once she no longer had to keep up with her wealthy friends in the Reach. _

_ He had been dismayed by how disappointed Lynesse was with Bear Island when they finally arrived. She had appeared crestfallen when she first looked upon Mormont Keep and had not appreciated the natural beauty of the island which Jorah tried to show her, and she had been miserable in the climate and even more miserable with the lack of luxuries and amenities. There were no theaters, no grand balls, no clubs, and no stylish shops. She’d thought he was joking and then became distraught when he told her that the fireplaces were actually used to supplement the meager gas heat, and candles were actually used to get by during frequent power outages, as Bear Island had no power plant of its own. She had disliked the food, which was often local fish or freshly killed game, and was appalled by the island’s shortage of paved roads and the inability to pick up more than a few television or radio stations on most days. He lived for her smiles and laughter, and it pained him to see her so miserable, so he’d sent for a cook from Oldtown to make familiar meals and had bought numerous electronics to try to entertain her. He’d ordered gowns, designer shoes and purses and jewelry from the Reach and from Dorne, and had even bought her a new luxury car from Deepwood Motte when he could not convince her that it would be no good on most of the roads on Bear Island. He had taken her to Deepwood Motte and Torrhen’s Square on weekends, but she liked those simple Northern cities not much better, so he took her on holidays to Lannisport and Sunspear and even Braavos when his duties allowed. He had still not quite believed that someone as beautiful and perfect as Lynesse could truly desire him, could love him, and could bring him such happiness and pleasure, and he’d told himself it was all worth it for her love. _

_ As his debt mounted, Jorah had finally begun to push back, and they had argued more and more, although he had always given in to her in the end. In fact, just a few months before, he’d sold his own precious stallion to allow her some small luxury. However, this Saturday, after spending much of the morning reviewing the account books, he’d decided he had no other choice. He’d reached a point where he couldn’t repay his creditors, he had completely spent House Mormont’s savings, he’d wiped out the operating budget of the entire island, and he’d sold things that his family valued, destroying his relationship with Aunt Maege and his cousins in the process. So after their midday meal, he had tried to broach the idea of selling a few items of her jewelry which he’d not seen her wear more than once after he’d spent a fortune on them and perhaps trading in her car for something more practical, and she’d become wild, ranting and screaming endlessly, Jorah not even attempting to speak as he’d downed several whiskeys in quick succession in his dismay.  _

_ “What kind of man buys his wife a gift and then takes it back? What kind of man promises a woman everything when he marries her and then cannot even support her? You told me you’d always love me, but now you’d act as if I’m only a disposable mistress!” she'd screamed for at least the tenth time. _

_ “Lynesse, be reasonable, you are acting like a spoiled child,” he’d finally interrupted her. _

_ At that, she’d flown at him, her hands striking his chest and clawing at his face, and he’d stood and put his hands up to shield himself and then tried to hold her arms gently to stop her blows. “Let go, you’re hurting me,” she’d screamed in a pained voice, and Jorah had released her and jumped back in shock.  _

_ She’d picked up a vase, some beautiful, expensive item she’d asked him to buy for her in Braavos, and hurled it at him. He’d barely managed to duck, and it shattered against the wall as she let out another scream. “Why would you treat me so? What have I done wrong? I thought you loved me, Jorah!” and she’d hurled his whiskey glass at his head. This time, he had ducked too slowly, and it glanced off his forehead before crashing to the floor. She’d begun to hit the wall with her fists and then her head, screaming and crying, and Jorah, completely at a loss as to what was happening, had stepped forward to try to stop her again, wrapping his arms around her and trying to hold her body against his, hoping he might calm her with an embrace or at the very least keep her from hurting herself.  _

_ Jorah had heard footsteps pounding up the stairs, and Lynesse slumped to the floor and began to sob, Jorah standing over her, just as Dacey burst in. She’d looked from Jorah to Lynesse and then back to Jorah with a dark look on her face. _

_ “He hurt me, Dacey,” Lynesse had cried. “Make him stop, please! Call the Gold Cloaks before he kills me!” _

_ Jorah had not been able to comprehend what he was hearing for a few seconds, and he wondered if he was in a bad dream. “Lynesse, I would never- why would you say such a thing?” he had retorted in a shocked voice. Lynesse continued to sob, and Dacey said nothing for a moment.  _

_ “I am the Gold Cloaks,” Dacey had said at last, softly, crouching down besides Lynesse. “What happened?”  _

_ “He hit me. He’s hit me before, but this time, I thought he would kill me. And he strangled me and threw me against the wall!” Lynesse had wailed. “Thank the Gods you came in or he truly may have killed me!” Surely everyone in the Keep could hear her. _

_ “Dacey, you must believe- I swear to you, I did no such thing,” Jorah had protested. Dacey had never warmed to Lynesse, nor Lynesse to Dacey. He could not understand why Lynesse was saying these things and why Dacey seemed to believe her although he suddenly feared that he may have hurt her when he’d grabbed her by the arms, perhaps even bruised her soft flesh, and perhaps she’d thought he meant to hurt her when he’d pulled her away from the wall. He knew he was a strong, rough man, and she was so small, perhaps he had accidentally caused her harm. But to say he’d done this before or hit her or strangled her, he could not understand. _

_ “You, shut your mouth,” Dacey had snapped at Jorah. “I’d like you to wait outside while I talk to Lynesse.” _

_ Jorah had stood stunned for a moment before walking into the hallway, where he paced with his head in his hands. Only then did he realize he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. He nearly ran into Alysane, whom he had not seen standing in the hallway, and he saw Jorelle and Lyra peaking at him from their room before quickly ducking back behind a closed door, Alysane going after them. Aunt Maege came up the stairs, gave him a dark look, and walked back down without a word. He’d continued pacing and fidgeting, rubbing the day old stubble on his chin, terrified that Dacey would not believe him and terrified that he may have actually harmed his wife. He’d felt his mind spinning as he replayed what had happened over and over in his head trying to be certain that he had done none of the things that Lynesse had said. Some time later, Dacey came out of the room, and his eyes had snapped to hers.  _

_ “Jorah, did you hit her?” _ __   
  


_ “No, I swear it. All I did- she- I suggested- I simply suggested we sell some of her jewelry or maybe the car, and she became wild. I admit, I did grab her arms and tried to hold her, and it may have been rougher than I’d intended, but she was like to hurt herself. She came at me and then she was hitting her head against the wall. I was just trying to hold her back. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I never struck her or strangled her or any of those things.”  _

_ Jorah paused, and Dacey had nearly growled, “Are you drunk?” _

_ “No, I’ve had only a few.” _

_ “How many is a few, added to your ales at lunch?” she’d replied icily. _

_ “Two, I mean, perhaps three, I wasn’t measuring the pours, but I am not drunk. Truly, I remember everything that happened clearly!” In truth, his mind was by now a jumbled mess, though not because of the drink, and he could see very little clearly. Still, he was positive he had not done what she’d said. Jorah had paused again, but Dacey continued to give him a hard look so he’d added, “Dacey, I swear to you by the Old Gods and the New, I am not the man I was. I did not hit her.” _

_ Finally, Dacey had replied softly, “I believe you, brother, and before Robert’s Revolution, your word would be the end of it- But it would not be proper for me to investigate this, and she’s insisted I call Winterfell and your regiment anyhow. She is of noble birth, it is her right, so I will have to do that. Tell the truth, and you will be fine.” She’d glanced to his forehead and added, “It is also your right to bring your own charges if in fact it was the other way around,” but Jorah had quickly shaken his head at the idea for what sort of man would suggest such a thing. Besides, he loved his wife.  _

_ So Jorah had paced and fretted for the next several hours, awaiting the ferry with Gold Cloaks from Deepwood Motte. He’d been interviewed when they arrived, questioned for what seemed like a very long time, and a major from his regiment had come as well, and then they’d talked to Lynesse and Dacey. After a long while, they’d left on the last ferry. They’d offered for Lynesse to come with them if she felt unsafe, but she’d declined, and Jorah had been relieved that they weren’t hauling him off to Winterfell though he knew he’d be hearing from Lord Stark eventually.  _

_ That night, he’d slipped into his chambers with the intention of grabbing what he needed to sleep in one of the guest chambers, but he froze when he saw Lynesse already in the room. “Lynesse,” he’d whispered, “I’ll find another way.” _

_ “What?” she’d snapped. _

_ “I’ll find another way to make the money we need. I’ll not ask you to sell anything. You are right, it is a poor excuse for a man who asks for a gift back. I am so sorry. I did not mean to upset you, or to hurt you in any way. Please forgive me, love. ” _

_ Lynesse’s eyes had softened then, and she’d gifted him with a smile. “Truly, Jorah? Oh, thank you! I knew you loved me.” He’d smiled slighted and then grabbed his things and started to leave the room, when she’d asked, “Where are you going?” _

_ “You’d have me share your bed after… our argument?” Jorah had said in confusion. _

_ “After you hurt me? I forgive you, Jorah. I think sometimes you think you are still in your wars. I know you didn’t mean it. Will you be the bear, and I’ll be the maiden fair to make it up to me?” she’d said coyly. Jorah’s heart had melted with relief, even though he hated that accursed song and he worried that she still seemed to think he’d hit her, but he’d been more than pleased to lick the honey from her hair for he loved his wife with all his heart and anything was worth it to make her happy.  _


	19. Chapter 11 - Jorah - August 1300

**Chapter 11 - Jorah - August 1300**

As he left Daenerys’ room, Jorah felt a desperate desire to drink. As he’d unhooked and unzipped her dress, he could not stop his mind from considering dangerous, forbidden thoughts, and combined with the tension of the entire evening and his encounter with his former good-father, he was far too on edge to even attempt to sleep. He cursed himself for his weaknesses and for all of his former discretions, and he could nearly hear his father’s scornful voice as he imagined the taste of whiskey on his tongue. With a growl, he managed to drag his thoughts back to sanity and determined to take the edge off in the gym instead. He’d called the guard room so that they’d know where he was should Daenerys wake and then headed to the gym, pushing his body through an excruciating workout for over an hour. Thus slightly assuaged, he’d toweled off and returned to his quarters.

The apartment was dark when he entered, and he pulled off his sweat soaked shirt as he went towards the kitchen to get some water. It was only when he passed the hallway leading to the bedchambers that he paused, feeling that something was amiss. 

He peered down the hall in the dim light and saw Daenerys’ door was open. Thinking she must still be up, he immediately put his shirt back on, it’s dampness making it a challenge. And then he heard a noise. He thought he heard a woman cry out followed by a smack, and then he heard a male voice. Jorah felt his pulse quicken as he hurried to her door. He hesitated at the threshold, remembering Lord Commander Selmy’s warning about entering her room without permission. He heard another sound that may have been a cry of pain, and he hesitated no longer, rushing into the room.

In the darkness, it was hard to see exactly what was happening, but when he turned the corner to come within view of her bed, he froze, his mind refusing to believe what he was seeing, thinking it must be a trick of the shadows. “Are you alright, Princess?” he heard himself say in a shockingly calm voice.

Viserys jerked up from where he’d been pinning Daenerys down on the bed by her throat with one hand, as she attempted to push him away, and in the shadows, Jorah saw his other hand was fumbling at his groin. Seeing him, Viserys jumped back, and Jorah could hear a zipper and the sound of a belt buckle being done up.

“How dare you!” shrieked Viserys. “You’d enter my dear sister’s chambers without so much as a knock? And dressed like that? I should have you castrated for this.” Jorah saw Viserys’ eyes were wild as he came towards him, and Jorah thought how easy it would be to break his scrawny neck as his hands tensed at his side. “I shall- I will- I will have this dealt with in the morning,” Viserys slurred as he pushed past Jorah and fled the apartments.

Daenerys was gasping for breath and crying, and Jorah took a step forward before freezing again. “Princess,” he said in a hoarse voice, “may I help you?” 

As she sat up slightly, waving him away and gasping, “Leave me alone,” he saw that her nightgown was torn, and he averted his eyes. 

“Daenerys,” he said softly, “nobody can survive in this world without help. Please, let me help you.” He risked a quick glance at her face. She sobbed and gave a small nod, and Jorah grabbed a blanket which had fallen on the floor and wrapped it around her shoulders. Only then did he turn on her bedside lamp and squat down, making himself eye level with her. “Did he- Are you in pain? Shall I call a maester?”

“No,” she answered immediately, “Don’t. I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But someone must be told! I’ll go to the Lord Commander, or your father if I must. Daenerys, has he done this before?” he said, dread filling his heart. 

“Please, you cannot tell. I hit him, that’s why he did it. I’ve never hit him before. I woke the dragon, Ser Jorah, and if I tell, it’ll make it worse,” she begged.

“Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon,” he growled, wishing he had throttled the Prince before he could escape. “Viserys is less than the shadow of a snake.”

Daenerys gave him a startled look. “But you swore yourself to him for life!” she said. 

“That I did, child. And if your brother is less than the shadow of a snake, what does that make his humble servants?” His voice sounded bitter. “He cannot be allowed to continue like this.”  _ I’ll kill him myself if I must,  _ he swore.

“But Viserys shall be King after my father,” Daenerys said in a sad voice. 

Jorah looked at her carefully. “Tell me truly now, do you want to see Viserys on the throne?” 

She considered this before replying, “He would not be a very good king, would he? But the common people love him. Ser Meryn says they pray for him to return the monarchy to its former glory and power in order to protect them from Lord Robert.”

“The common people pray for jobs, healthy children, and good weather. They want to be left in peace. They don’t care what games the High Lords play,” he told her, not sure why they were discussing this given what had just transpired but determined to keep her talking. 

Daenerys was silent for a moment. “What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?” she asked.

“Home,” he said honestly after a moment’s pause, his voice thick with longing and his heart clenching painfully. He could almost see the forest and lakes and hear the cold streams rushing down over the rocks where he’d played as a boy. But he’d forced the memories aside and continued, “What would you have me do? I cannot stand aside and do nothing.”

“Will you stand guard outside my door tonight, Ser? And I will make a decision in the morning?”

“Of course, Khaleesi. If you would allow me, I’d like to shower and dress more appropriately as I’ve just come from the gym, but I’ll bar the door so that no one can enter until I’m done. I apologize that I was not here earlier. I never should have left you alone.” 

When Daenerys nodded, Jorah quickly left the room, moved a couch in front of the main entrance to her apartments and table against the servants’ entrance, and went to shower. He kept the water as cold as possible, trying desperately to cool his emotions, and then he toweled off and changed, his mind still struggling to process the events of the evening. Once he was suitably dressed, he exited his bedroom, only to nearly run over Daenerys who hovered just outside his door. “Princess, forgive me, I did not expect you-”

The slight girl threw her arms around his torso and buried her face against his chest. “I did not mean to startle you, Ser. It’s just that I was worried and was coming to see if you were nearly done.”

Jorah stood stiffly, his arms at his side, and fought an internal struggle. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her, to hold her close, to whisper soothing words into her ears and perhaps even to kiss her forehead. He wanted to stroke her hair and tell her that she had nothing to fear now because he would protect her. He felt powerless in her embrace, nearly weak in the knees, but also stronger than he’d ever felt as if he knew he could fight off a hundred men for her. Yet, he also knew he could not say or do any of these things. It would be too forward and would take advantage of her emotional state, and while she might accept it now, she would surely regret it later. He settled with placing one hand gently on her back and the other on her shoulder, giving her a slight pat. “I will stand guard now, Daenerys. No one will disturb you anymore tonight.”

He felt her sigh against his chest, and then she said, “Lord Hightower was very angry with you. Is it true that you struck your Lady wife?”

He could not breath for a moment and blood pounded in his ears. “Aye,” he finally answered in a whisper, and it was not a lie.

“And that’s why you fled,” she mused. When he did not immediately respond, she looked up at him and seemed to take his silence for consent before adding, “But why?” 

“I have asked myself that question for years, and still I do not know. It was not as Lord Hightower said, it happened only once, but I did strike my wife. It was long ago, and I hope I have changed. I suppose I was angry and drunk although those are no reasons for there is no acceptable reason for what I did.”

“Would you strike me, Ser, if you were angry and drunk?”

“Never.”


	20. Truth - January 1283 AC

** _Truth - January 1283 AC_ **

_ Jorah had pulled his collar tight as he stumbled up the path to Mormont Keep, nearly blinded by the snow, the wind burning his exposed cheeks and nose. It was late, past midnight, and he had spent the past five hours in the village pub. The barkeep, Mycah, had given him a worried look when he’d closed his tab and made to leave, saying, “Be careful in the storm, m’Lord. A sober man could get lost and freeze out there. I can send one of the men with you to see you safely home, or call Tom to drive you in his plow.” But Jorah had waved him away and staggered out into the night. _

_ As he had left the Keep earlier in the evening, Aunt Maege had given him an accusatory look, and he’d reminded her that it was important that he reacquaint himself with the villagers and that was why he’d made these near nightly excursions over the past month of his extended leave. After all, he’d been gone as often as not over the past six years between his time at the Academy, his multiple deployments to Astapor, and his duty posting in the Reach. As he’d become their Liege Lord less than two months prior, he had explained that he must show his face around the Island as much as possible before he returned to his regiment in a few short weeks. _

_ The first evening, he may have even meant it as he’d walked the short path from the Keep to the village square. It had been bitterly cold, so he’d stepped into the pub and ordered a pint and whiskey from the barkeep. He had missed the dark ale and the Barrowlands whiskey, hard to get in the Reach and impossible to find in Astapor. He had told himself a few drinks would help him sleep that night. He’d barely slept, plagued by dreams as he was since the early months of his second tour in Astapor from which he’d returned just a few months ago. He’d told himself that if he could sleep through the night without thrashing about, his Lady wife might be more comfortable. Even before the dreams, before his long second deployment, she had been ill at ease in his bed, but now, when he too frequently woke himself with a strangled cry to find himself tangled in the sheets, trembling and drenched in a cold sweat, he’d find his wife curled at the edge of the bed watching him in terror. _

_ He had kept his vows to her at first, through his first deployment and during his early months stationed in the Reach. But when he’d had his first indiscretion with a pretty common girl he’d met at a tavern one drunken night in Highgarden, Sarra hundreds of miles away on Bear Island, and he’d been racked by shame and guilt, he had told himself that every man had needs. If he acted discreetly, it would bring his Lady wife no shame, and he’d told himself the same in the months to come when loneliness or drunkenness overcame him and he’d given in a few more times to his moments of weakness. The second deployment was much longer, eighteen months, and far more brutal, and although it seemed that half the regiment snuck off to whore houses whenever they weren’t in the field, he’d told himself that at least he’d only done it twice. _

_ Yet, he had sworn to himself that he would never break his vows when he shared a roof with his wife. As he’d made the return trip to Bear Island after nearly two years away, he had truly looked forward to seeing Sarra again. While they had been separated for most of their short marriage due to his military duties, they had written often, and when they had shared a roof, though she had lacked a passion in the bedroom that he desired and seemed to fear his advances, he had found her to be kind. He had appreciated that she asked about his books and even his poetry instead of scoffing and listened with interest when he shared his thoughts and ideas with her, never belittling or mocking him. When he’d finally stepped off the ferry, relieved to be back on his beloved island, he had greeted his father first and then his wife before turning to his cousins and aunt. _ _ That evening, as he’d watched little Lyra, who’d been a brand new baby last he’d seen her, toddle about the den and held Aunt Maege’s new infant daughter, Jorelle, and watched his wife coo over her and seen her laugh with Dacey and Alysane, he had felt almost content at the thought that one day he might hold his own child in his lap and laugh with her in that way. He’d told himself that he was home now, Astapor was in the past, and he’d felt relieved. _

_ Yet later, when they were finally alone together, Jorah had thought that she was even plainer than he’d remembered, but he reminded himself that she was his wife, it was his duty to try to love her, and besides, it had been such a long time since he’d been with a woman. Sarra had become shy as he had undressed. He saw her eyes briefly take in the ugly new scars on his chest, shoulder, and thigh, and Jorah had thought she looked scared and perhaps repulsed. She had jumped at his touch when he had reached for her and her kisses were chaste and dutiful instead of passionate. He had tried to caress her and calm her with soft words as he’d undressed her, and he’d tried to use his fingers to gently increase her arousal, but when he’d touched her, she’d clapped her legs together in embarrassment as if he was a stranger and not her husband of over three years, and she had lain stiff beneath him when he had finally moved within her. He told himself it was because he had been so long away and that things would improve, but later that night, he woke with a cry and saw his wife’s fear, and he’d felt humiliated that she’d witnessed his weakness. _

_ Jorah had ascended to his father’s lordship several days later when Jeor Mormont left to take the Old Oath to the Watch. Jorah had not wanted his father to leave, and they’d parted on less than good terms. Although his father thought him ready to be a Lord, he still did not seem to consider him a man. Jorah had hoped that he’d have his father’s respect now that he was a decorated soldier himself, but his father thought little of Jorah’s military experience. He’d scoffed that they gave medals out like candy in Southron units when Jorah had showed him what he’d earned and added that it took a real man to serve at the Wall, where they fought a far more fierce enemy for honor and brotherhood, not medals. “Now that you’re to be Lord, you’d best request a transfer to the Watch or the Wolfswood so that you can do your duty to the Island,” he’d said, “And then perhaps you’ll remember how Northmen fight.” _

_ Jorah had been shocked when his father had told him what he intended to do, and he’d argued with him for the first time in his life. Jorah hadn’t understood why his father would take oaths that would essentially disavow his own son, for men who took the Old Oath vowed to father no sons, and he’d told his father so. “But you already have a son, Father,” he’d said. His father had bristled and responded angrily, telling him that he was choosing a path of honor and that Jorah was acting like a child. Still he’d dared to express his other worry. “If you must do this, couldn’t you wait another year, or at least a few more months, Father?” he’d asked. “I haven’t been feeling well since I’ve been back.” _

_ “What is that supposed to mean? Do you have some Eastern disease I should be aware of?” his father had asked, still angry. _

_ “No, Father, but I haven’t felt myself. My mind- If I could just have a bit more time to readjust to being back, I might be better suited for the responsibilities of Lord. I don’t feel ready yet.” _

_ His father had scoffed at that. “Are you a Northman and Mormont, or have you turned into some soft Southron fool that you’d speak to me of such feelings? Do you think I felt ready to rule when my Lord father died? Of course not, but I did my duty as my father had raised me to do, and I expect that you will do the same. It is time for you to grow up.” _

_ “Yes, Father,” Jorah had replied, but he’d refused to meet his eyes and stormed from the room, and his father had yelled after him that he could still give him one more thrashing before handing him the lordship if he still hadn’t learned to respect his father. They barely spoke after that, and his father left two days later. _

_ Despite it all, Jorah had felt a rush of pride when his father had called him Lord Mormont and handed him the family sword, Longclaw, but as he’d watched his father sail away, he’d felt abandoned, lost, and more than a little panicked. _

_ However, that first night in the Lord’s chamber, he’d hoped his wife might be pleased to be the Lady of Bear Island, but she had told him she was tired after the ceremony and feast, so he’d let her be. Later that night, he had been haunted by his dreams, and when he woke up in terror, he had sought to calm himself in her. When he’d reached for her, she’d flinched at his touch, but she hadn’t said no, so he’d pulled her to him and taken her, and his trembling had ceased as he concentrated his fears and pain into his hard and desperate thrusts. Only when he had finished did he realize she was crying silently and his apologies did nothing to calm her. _

_ In the nights to come, she had shrunk from him all the more. When he and Sarra had traveled briefly to Winterfell so that he could swear fealty to House Stark, she had seemed so repulsed by the memories of their last time there that he didn’t even attempt to touch her when they went to bed and that had continued when they’d returned to Bear Island though he’d desired a woman’s love more than anything. _

_ To make matters worse, while they had enjoyed each other’s company during the day well enough immediately after his return, Jorah, who had always been prone to brooding and dark moods, had found himself inexplicably agitated and easily enraged as he’d never been before, and it only got worse after his father left. He’d go about his day in a perfectly normal fashion when suddenly some tiny thing, or sometimes nothing in particular at all would set him off, and he’d feel his throat tighten and his heart race and he’d break out in a sweat despite the winter weather, a cold rage combined with panic seeming to suffocate his heart and strangle his soul until he thought he’d explode. _

_ Sometimes he’d retreat into the forest when this happened under the guise of hunting, and he’d stalk through the snowy woods alone but for one of the dogs for hours, his rifle slung over his shoulder, not even looking for prey, although one time when the rage had become nearly unbearable, he’d been startled to find his handgun unholstered and cocked and pointed at his own head, and he’d replaced it carefully with shaking hands. He’d felt tears in his eyes, but he did not let them fall, for he was a man grown and not a little boy. _

_ However, when he did not leave the Keep, he’d snap at whomever was nearby for reasons that he could not explain. Soon his wife and everyone else in the household, eventually even stubborn Dacey who’d persisted in trying to get him to talk at first, avoided him throughout the day, and he’d thought his wife could hardly stand to be in the same room as him, nevermind in his bed at night. Yet, he was too proud to banish himself to a guest chamber, and she was too dutiful to leave his bed. _

_ So that first night in the pub when he’d seen the pretty face of one of the common girls whom he’d taken in the forest all those years ago, the first girl he’d lain with in fact, a girl he’d thought he’d been in love with for a time, he’d smiled at her and bought her a drink. “I’ve not seen you in so long, but you are as beautiful as I’d recalled,” he’d said, trying to remember her name. Nora! That was it. _

_ “Thank you, m’Lord,” she’d answered with a sweet smile. “And you are even more handsome,” she’d added rather boldly. _

_ He’d learned that she was married now to a fisherman nearly ten years her senior, her husband in Deepwood Motte until morning, and she had two young children who were home with her mother. Several drinks later, he’d asked the barkeep if he could have use of the storeroom phone to take care of a private matter, and of course, he hadn’t been refused. He could go where he pleased on the Island. When Mycah showed him the room, he said it would do, and asked him to tell the girl that her Lord would have a word with her. When she’d arrived, he’d stepped close to her and lifted her chin so that she looked him in the eye. The last time they’d been this close, he had been barely more than a boy, not yet grown to his full height with no more than peach fuzz on his cheeks and a lithe build and little experience with girls. He’d kissed her first that day, but she’d told him not to be shy as she had undressed before him and then pulled off his shirt and undone his fly and guided him into her. Now he was a burly and well muscled man who towered over her, and he’d grown a beard since returning to the Island. “Do I scare you?” he’d asked, for he surely scared his wife, but Nora had shaken her head no. _

_ “Do you remember that day in the forest?” _

_ “I will never forget it, m’Lord,” she’d said. _

_ “You had me once as a boy. Would you have me now as your Lord?” he’d asked softly. _

_ “I would, m’Lord,” she’d responded. _

_ He’d watched as she’d taken off her jeans and underpants, and he’d taken off her top as well. Then he’d lifted her onto a packing crate and undone his trousers, and they’d kissed for a few moments as he’d felt her and she’d firmly stroked his hard cock, which his wife was fearful to even touch. Then he’d taken her, deep and hard, she crying out in pleasure as his wife never had. “Hush,” he’d moaned into her ear, “We can’t have them hearing us,” but it secretly pleased him. When he was done, spilling himself onto her leg, he’d lifted her down with one last kiss, fixed up his pants and shirt, and told her to wait a few minutes after him before returning to the main barroom. He did not speak to her when she returned, for he was ashamed, although he had Mycha fix her another drink, but at the end of the night, he’d told her that she should not fear coming to her Lord if there was anything she had need of, and he’d left a large tip for the barkeep. _

_ In the nights to come, he’d had Nora a few more times, and some other girls as well, and he’d tipped Mycah mightily each time both for the many drinks and for his discretion. After a few such nights, he’d grown bolder and more deliberate, and Jorah had taken to lying with girls in their homes when their husbands were at work during the day or having them in his truck as he made his rounds of the island supposedly going about his lordly duties, sober but for an occasional nip from his silver flask, a gift from a dead comrade. He tried to be kind, to ensure that each girl was comfortable and willing, to see to their pleasure at least a little bit, to speak a few gentle words when he had finished. Yet, though he longed for love and gentleness, as if to remind himself that none of these women were his wife, he took most hard and rough, or he had them take him with their mouths for he would never dream of asking his wife to do such a thing. Yet, he relished when most responded with pleasure and felt awful when it seemed they were in pain, though he told himself he did not care. Once, he’d taken Nora in her husband’s bed so gently that it was almost making love and he’d dozed in her arms undisturbed by his demons for nearly an hour afterwards before seeming to remember that she was not his wife, and in his guilt, he’d taken her again, but roughly, and then he’d dressed quickly and fled into the forest, cursing himself, hating himself, until the sun began to dip low in the sky and he’d returned home for supper with his wife. He’d headed to the pub that night as well and had another girl. _

_ Afterwards, guilt and shame always gnawed at him, but he told himself his wife did not desire him, and he had a man’s needs. Besides, his lust was a welcome distraction from the other dark thoughts that filled his mind. He thought the temporary moments of intimacy and the bliss of his release were the only things keeping the rage and panic that swelled up in him at bay, the only times he felt anything but anger and pain, so he did not stop. _

_ This night had been no different. He’d fucked a willing and pretty enough girl in the back room of the pub, and he had not been gentle. Even in his denial, it was clear that he had caused her pain, and he’d mumbled an apology when he was done. He’d felt terrible afterwards both for his treatment of the girl and his betrayal of his wife, and he had several more drinks to drown his guilt before leaving. Now, as he finally stumbled back into the Keep and knocked the snow from his clothes, he’d been surprised to find Sarra waiting for him in the den. _

_ “I had not thought to find you still up,” he’d said, as he’d plopped into his easy chair, closing his eyes and rubbing his thawing beard, feeling the full effects of the alcohol in his system, thinking he might just sleep in the chair. “Is something wrong?” _

_ “My Lord,” she’d begun tentatively. _

_ Jorah’s eyes had snapped open at that. It pained him when she called him that in private. “Sarra, you know I prefer you call me Jorah,” he’d said softly. He must have told her that a dozen times since they’d been married. _

_ “Jorah… Why do you treat me so? What have I done to displease you?” she’d asked in a broken voice. _

_ He hadn’t known how to respond, so he said nothing. He saw a tear fall down her cheek then, and he’d stood abruptly, the room spinning slightly. “You have done nothing to displease me, Sarra. You must be tired. Come, let’s go to bed.” _

_ “Why do you do it then, Jorah?” she’d persisted. _

_ “I don’t know what you speak of,” he’d said sullenly, his voice slurred, and he made to leave the room. _

_ “I can smell them on you, my Lord. And the servants whisper. Why do you shame me?” she’d cried out as she moved towards him, blocking his path. _

_ He had felt a sudden surge of rage, his throat tightening and heart pounding, and he’d grabbed her roughly by the arm, shaking her slightly, and he’d snapped loudly, “My business is none of your concern.” _

_ “It is my concern. I know I displease you in our bed, but have I ever denied you? I know you never wanted to marry me and have never loved me, but am I not still your Lady wife or would you set me aside for one of your whores?” his timid wife had yelled trying to pull away from him. _

_ Jorah had struck her then, the back of his hand hitting her soft cheek without consulting his brain, and the blow knocked her to the floor. He’d grabbed her by the arm again and hauled her up before striking her back to the ground with his fist, and he had leaned over her and raised his fist again when he heard a cry of “Jorah!” from the doorway, and then Dacey had grabbed at him from behind, the momentum of his swing nearly knocking her down as well, but she had held on, and Jorah had snapped from his frenzied state and froze. _

_ Dacey let go of Jorah’s arm and rushed to Sarra who was now sobbing on the floor. She’d helped her to her feet and led her to the door. Jorah had made to follow, stammering, “Sarra, I didn’t mean- I’m sorry, Sarra-” _

_ But Dacey had whirled on him and hissed, “Don’t you dare even think about it!” before leading Sarra up the stairs to his bedchamber. _

_ Jorah had felt a wave of nausea come over him, and he’d emptied his guts into a waste basket. Later, he’d tried to sleep in one of the guest chambers, but it seemed that no sooner had he closed his eyes that his nightmares came to him but this time the man whose head he’d smashed in with a brick was his father and the woman, oh Gods, the woman, when he’d turned her over to check for life, it was Sarra staring back at him with dead eyes. He’d gotten up vomiting again, and then spent the rest of the night pacing, and as the household had begun to rise, he’d hovered guiltily in the hallway near the entrance to his chambers, wishing he had come home from Astapor in a box like so many of his men instead of how he was. _

_ Dacey passed him, shooting him daggers with her eyes, and went into his room and after some time, she came back out. “Is she alright?” he’d asked meekly. _

_ “What do you think?” Dacey spat back at him. _

_ “Will she speak to me?” _

_ “Leave her be,” Dacey said coldly. _

_ After a time, Jorah had gone to break his fast but found he had no appetite. When Alysane had asked if Sarra would be joining them, he’d excused himself abruptly, and Aunt Maege had given him a strange look. He’d continued to pace in the hallway for the next hour before going in search of Dacey. He’d found her outside, furiously shoveling the walkway with Tom, who kept the grounds and stable, and one of the boys who helped him. “She needs to eat,” Jorah had whispered, not wanting the servants to hear. Dacey had ignored him. “Please don’t tell Father,” he’d begged, and then she’d whirled on him. _

_ “ _ That _ is what you’re concerned about right now? That I’ll tell your father? You selfish, cruel fool!” she’d yelled. _

_ Jorah had felt Tom and the boy looking at him as he reddened in shame, and he stammered without thinking, “You can’t speak to me that way, I’m your Lord,” before retreating as fast as he could into the forest. He would have put a bullet in his head, but he’d left his gun in the Keep. _

_ The midday meal came, and Sarra still had not emerged. Alysane had asked if Sarra was ill. Aunt Maege had asked if Jorah planned to change out of the clothes he’d worn the night before, and Jorah had stared at his hands and not answered and had barely eaten a bite. When Dacey left the dining room, Jorah had jumped up and rushed after her. “I’d thought to bring her some lunch on a tray, she must eat something.” _

_ “Why are you telling me?” Dacey had growled. “You are the Lord, you can do whatever you please.” _

_ Jorah had gone to the kitchen then and asked the cook to make up a tray for his Lady wife. When it was ready, he’d carried it carefully to his chambers, opening the door as softly as he could. The shades were drawn and the room was still clothed in shadows, but he saw the shape of his wife in bed. He’d approached quietly, setting the tray on a table as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and knelt at the side of the bed. _

_ Sarra’s eyes were closed, and he saw a dark bruise on her cheek, a cut raw where his signet ring had broken her soft skin. Her eyes were puffy, whether from tears or from bruising he was not sure. “Sarra,” he’d tried to whisper gently, but his voice came out hoarse and gruff. She did not move, but he saw a tear slide from her closed eyes. He’d ghosted his thumb over her cheek, taking care to avoid the cut and felt her flinch, then he’d gently taken her hand and her whole arm had tensed. He saw a bruise on her arm where he had grabbed her. “Please,” he had nearly sobbed, “My Lady, please- forgive me.” She did not open her eyes or say a word. He kissed her hand then and struggled to formulate words. “Sarra, you must believe me, I never meant- if I could take it all back- I wish I could take all the pain I’ve caused you for myself. You are my Lady wife, and no one would replace you. I swear to you, I shall not dishonor you or treat you ungently again. I- I will be a better husband, a better man. Please- please tell me, is there nothing I can do to prove it to you?” _

_ She opened her eyes then and spoke, her voice cracking as tears streamed down her face, “You never wanted to marry me. I am sorry I lost our son, my Lord. Perhaps you could love me better if he had lived.” _

_ Jorah had swallowed hard at that before speaking again. “My Lady, you did nothing wrong. There is- it may be true that I did not want to marry you once, but you have been a good wife, and you are a worthy Lady of Bear Island. It is I who have been wrong in everything, I who have failed you in every way, I who have been unfaithful to every vow I made to you while you have kept them all. I do not know how to explain my behavior last night or since I returned. It was most shameful, and I am so sorry.” He had wanted to tell her about Astapor, but his father had told him to never make excuses, so he did not. “As for our son, we are still young. We will have more sons, and daughters too, I hope, but only if you wish it.” She said nothing, but her hand relaxed slightly in his grip, so he had kissed it again. “I promise I shall be a better husband if you will give me a second chance.” _ Though I have given her no reason to trust my word _ , he thought. “I understand that it will take time, and I will give you what space you need for however long you desire it. And if you think time will make no difference and wish to return to your father, I will not stop you, though I beg you not to. But please, for now, you must eat. I’ve brought you some food. After, I’ll run you a hot bath if you’d like. And then I’ll leave you in peace.” She did not respond for a moment but then nodded, and he’d helped her to sit before bringing her the tray. _

_ Later, when he’d passed Maege in the hall, she’d called him “boy” and a disgrace, and he knew Dacey had told. He had been relieved when Sarra had joined the family for supper, but then Alysane’s eyes had passed from Sarra’s bruised and cut face to Jorah’s and she had scowled at him, and he knew the servants saw too. _

_ The next several days, though he’d yearned to retreat into the forest as anger and panic continued to overwhelm him, he’d managed to keep his temper under control, and he’d stayed in the Keep except to shovel snow, work in the stables, or chop wood, violently, viciously, when it all became too much to bear. He’d told Dacey where he was going each time he set foot outside in case Sarra should ask, although Dacey growled that she did not care what he did. He’d given his wife space, not setting foot in his chambers again, except when he was certain that she wasn’t there in order to keep the fireplace well stocked with wood. Nor did he dare speak a word to her except in polite greeting unless she initiated it, but he was keenly aware of where she was. He’d sprung to pull out her chair when she came to meals or to open a door for her, he’d leapt to his feet chivalrously each time she entered or exited a room where he was present, and he’d asked the cook to make her favorite foods. He’d thought to go to Deepwood Motte to buy her some sort of gift, but the weather was still stormy, and he didn’t dare leave the Keep for so long in case she thought he was with another woman. Instead, he’d sent a stable boy to buy a chocolate bar from the village store, and he’d left it on her pillow when he’d checked on the fireplace. _

_ He’d slept, or at least tried to sleep, in one of the guest chambers, but on the fourth night, as he’d sat on the bed debating whether to face his dreams or simply try to stay awake, Sarra had knocked softly and come in. “Will you come back to our chambers, Jorah?” she’d asked. _

_ He’d scrambled to his feet in surprise and responded, “Are you certain, my Lady?” _

_ “I forgive you, Jorah. I’d like you to come back to our bed,” she’d replied though he saw sadness in her eyes, and he’d known that he did not deserve her. He certainly had not forgiven himself for any of it. _

_ He had whispered “thank you,” and kissed her cheek when he climbed into their bed, but otherwise, they did not touch. It took him a long time to fall asleep despite his exhaustion, and when he did, his dreams met him. He awoke with a cry, drenched in sweat and shaking, and when he looked at his wife huddled at the edge of the bed, he saw fear on her face. “I’m sorry, my Lady,” he’d rasped. “I did not mean to wake you.” _

_ “What do you see, Jorah?” she’d asked as she moved closer to him. _

_ He had hesitated for a moment before saying softly, “Astapor.” He’d thought to tell her more, to tell her the terrible things he’d seen and done and to tell her that what he’d done to her had joined his nightmares as well, but he was a Mormont, a Lord, a soldier, he was meant to be strong and hard, and he would not burden his gentle wife with these things, especially after all the harm he had already caused her. _

_ “Is there nothing I can do?” she’d said then. _

_ It had warmed his heart to hear her concern, but he’d answered quickly, “No, my Lady, but I will be fine with time I’m sure. I’m sorry to have troubled you. If you’d sleep better, I’ll return to the other room.” _

_ “No one can survive in this world all alone, Jorah. If I’m to be your wife, please let me help you,” she’d said softly and reached out to take his hand. _

_ At her touch, he’d nearly cried, but still he’d hesitated for a long moment before at last asking, “Would you- would you perhaps just hold me?” _

_ \--- _

_ During the remaining two weeks Jorah had on Bear Island before returning to his regiment in the Reach, he’d had not a drop to drink and spent each evening in the Keep. He invited Sarra to join him each time he left during the day to see about the business of the Island, and while she often declined, she seemed to appreciate the thought. Though they still were not speaking to him, he ordered Dacey or Alysane to join him whenever Sarra did not want to come so that she would know he was truly doing his duty. When he felt unexplained rage or panic overwhelming him, he’d go into the garage and pound his heavy bag until he could barely lift his arms and then he’d walk into the forest and take in the silence and peace of the world muffled by snow for a short time, and he’d found it helped, at least a little. _

_ While Aunt Maege had not warmed to him before he left again, Dacey had finally spoken kindly to him during his last week and Alysane followed her lead. In his chambers, he and Sarra had intimate relations on a few occasions, he being as gentle and caring as he could, though she still tensed slightly beneath him, and he continued to be haunted by dreams, but when he woke, his wife would hold him and soothe him until his trembling stopped and he was able to fall back to sleep. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, I had to do this, please don’t hate me! As I said after an earlier chapter, I’m not trying to justify anything Jorah does or make it seem like it was even remotely ok or justified, but I’m trying to put you in his mind at this stage of his life, which is a complete mess right now. He’s going to have to live with what happened for the rest of his life, and it’ll impact his future actions and decisions immensely. While his infidelity is in canon, I realize that this sort of violence is not. However, his experiences with his father’s use of violence and emphasis on hardness/toughness in this story combined with his experiences as a soldier, which I’ll get into more later, make lashing out violently not too much of a stretch in my opinion.


	21. Chapter 12 - Daenerys - September 1300

**Chapter 12 - Daenerys - September 1300**

Daenerys awoke on what was to be her first day of university a bundle of nerves. Missandei and Irri helped her prepare, and she went for the sophisticated but casual look with her attire and hair that she’d seen college girls wearing in magazines. 

“Aren’t you nervous, Missi?” she asked her friend who combed her hair, looking calm as could be. Missandei was several years older than her, having had several gaps in her schooling due to her years in an orphanage and her lower class status until she’d come into Daenerys’ service, and Daenerys thought perhaps her age was why she looked so confident.

“Of course, Princess, but we are both well prepared, so there’s really nothing to worry about,” she replied.

“I meant about meeting people,” said Daenerys, although she suddenly remembered that Missandei had lived a whole life outside of the Red Keep.

“Just be yourself,” said Missi. “Irri and I love you just the way you are. And Ser Jorah too. I have no doubt others will as well.”

“I’m so excited for your both,” said Irri. “I want to hear all about it when you get back.”

Just then there was a knock on the door, and when Irri answered, she saw Ser Jorah outside. He looked tired but impeccably dressed as always. He had not yet put on his jacket, but she saw that he had already donned his kevlar vest. “Forgive me for intruding, but if you’re both ready, we need to get going, Princess. There may be some traffic.”

Daenerys took one last nervous look in the mirror before grabbing her bag and hugging Irri, and then she, Missi, and Jorah headed for the car. 

\---

Jorah had stood outside her door for the rest of the night after Viserys had attacked her in her room, and Daenerys had slept, almost peacefully. The next morning with Missi and Irri back, she’d tried to let life return to normal. She decided to forbid Jorah from telling anyone. It would do no good anyhow. He started to protest but she had cut him off with a sharp look, saying her decision was final and though she could tell he was not pleased, he’d bowed his head, clenched his jaw, and said no more. 

The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully enough, and Daenerys managed to think of pleasant thoughts from time to time though she felt on edge every time Jorah was not within her sight. He seemed to sense it and stayed in the common living room, not once asking to go to the gym or look after his horse. On Sunday, she was daydreaming as Missi did her hair, thinking of Robb and the start of school, when Irri had spoken up. “Khaleesi, did you know that Ser Jorah has been sleeping on the couch in the living room? I’ve seen him the past two nights. Why is that?” Daenerys said she did not know, but she felt a wave of nausea pass over her as she thought of her brother.

Later that day, Ser Jorah was called to Ser Barristan’s office, and Daenerys nearly panicked that Viserys would take advantage of his absence to come back even though her handmaids were with her. When Jorah returned, she’d felt immensely relieved and nearly rushed to him, but while his face was perfectly impassive, she could sense that he was angry. Daenerys knew he must have been reprimanded for dancing with her, and she felt badly that she had not spoken up on his behalf or explained to Ser Barristan that she had ordered him to do it. She felt worse still when Ser Jorah had not taken his next weekend off. He made an excuse, saying she must want to go riding once more before the summer holiday ended and it was true that she felt safe and free away from Viserys and the Keep, but when he did not leave on Sunday either, she knew that was not the whole reason.

The night before her first day of university, she was nervous and restless. She gave up on sleep at some point and decided to read. She had just flipped on her bedside lamp when she heard voices outside of her chambers. She crept to the door and cracked it slightly and felt terror fill her when she recognized Viserys’ voice, but a semblance of calm returned when she saw Ser Jorah’s broad back in the hallway. 

“I am to be the king of the greatest dynasty the world has ever seen. This is the Targaryen way. I cannot have my sister disrespecting me and refusing my commands,” Viserys whined. “You stand there, all nobility and honor. You don’t think I see you looking at my little sister? You don’t think I know what you want? I don’t care, you can have her after I am done with her. But let me go.” Somehow her panicked mind thought,  _ What does Viserys think Jorah wants? He told me he wanted home, but what does that have to do with me? _

She saw a slight tick in Jorah’s jaw, but he responded calmly in his deep timbre,“You can go. The exit is right behind you, Your Grace,” 

Visery snarled, “You swore an oath to me. Does loyalty mean nothing to you?”

“It means everything to me.”

“And yet here you stand.”

“And yet here I stand.”

The two men stared at each other for several seconds longer before Viserys attempted to push past him, and Jorah shoved him to the ground. 

Viserys scrambled backwards, hissing, “Keep your hands off me! No one touches the dragon without leave! I should have your hand cut off for that!” Then he clambered back to his feet and drew his sword, pointing it at Jorah’s neck.

Jorah, who Daenerys saw had his handgun tucked into the back of his pants, didn’t even flinch or reach for his weapon. “If you attempt to touch the Princess, I’ll take that sword and cut off your hand myself,” he told Viserys coldly.

Viserys sputtered angrily for a moment and then Ser Jorah added, “And be careful, Your Grace, if you come back another night, I may mistake you for an assassin and put a bullet in your head.”

“You wouldn’t dare! My father would have you tortured before burning you alive for such an offense.”

“Try me,” Jorah said.

At that, Vesrys whirled and left. Daenerys closed her door as softly as she could and went back to bed. She slept soundly the rest of the night.

\---

“I understand, Ser Jorah, I promise. I shall be careful. Now, I will hear no more of these things.” Daenerys was anxious enough about her first day of university without Ser Jorah going over security protocols yet again on the drive to the campus.

“As you say, Princess,” he said respectfully. 

“Do you remember your first day of university, Ser?” Missandei inquired.

Ser Jorah gave a tight smile before responding, “I didn’t go to university, I went to the Military Academy. I’m sure you will find your experience very different and much more enjoyable.”

“But it was a school,” pressed Daenerys.

“Aye, Khaleesi, it was, but not in the same sense. The curriculum is only three years, and almost all of it has a military focus. I daresay I spent far more time marching, practicing field maneuvers, doing pushups, and polishing things than I spent in the classroom or on traditional homework, and much of what I learned in the classroom was only relevant to a military career. I earned a commission, not a bachelor’s degree when it was done. Most KLU alumni, or really graduates of any of the universities in the kingdoms would scoff at my educational background.” 

Daenerys disagreed because Jorah was the smartest and wisest man she knew, but she sensed this was a sensitive subject for him, so she let it drop and instead ruffled through her bag to check her schedule yet again. She knew that Jorah had it memorized and in fact had already been to the campus with Ser Barristan to walk through her daily schedule and each classroom, but she stubbornly wanted to be able to lead him on the campus. She was the student after all.

When they arrived at the campus, the driver dropped them at the gate, and Jorah walked a half step behind her as she made her way down the tree lined sidewalks with Missi at her other side. Eventually, they came to the building where Missi had her first class, and the girls hugged and wished each other luck. Daenerys, who had started the morning determined to be independent, was suddenly very relieved to still have Jorah with her for the rest of the walk as she saw students and faculty alike turning to stare, and she wasn’t angry at all when Jorah pointed out the right building with a gentle touch to her elbow and a nod of his head in the right direction when she became slightly lost. 

When they reached her classroom, Jorah walked in first and did a quick check around the room, a small seminar classroom, and introduced himself to the professor, who bowed low to Daenerys. “Well, Princess, good luck,” Jorah said when he was done. “I shall be right outside if you need anything.” Then she was alone aside from the stares of a few of her fellow classmates. She was only able to relax once the class began, and then she put her mind into learning. 

The rest of the day went smoothly enough. She liked her schedule, and she even met a few girls in her history class who joined her and Missi for lunch at a cafe. She invited Jorah to join them, but he insisted on sitting a table over, telling her she should make some friends. She noticed he looked exhausted and gulped down several large cups of coffee with his meal.

On the drive back to the Keep, she felt pleased and relieved, and she told Jorah about all of her classes and the people she had met. “Why, the commoners were not as different as I expected!” she exclaimed.

She was surprised when Ser Jorah snorted at that, and when she asked him what he found so funny, he said, “Princess, I don’t think you met any commoners today.”

“Of course I did,” she replied indignantly. “KLU has students from all backgrounds.”

“Khaleesi, it is true, you may have met some children of rich businessmen and merchants who do not have noble blood, but those are not truly commoners. And the rest whose names you did not know were the sons and daughters of lower nobility or high ranking landed knights and officers or international students who are the children of merchant princes in Essos. Did you not see how they were dressed or hear how they spoke? I did not see a single commoner today aside from Missandei, the custodial staff, the cafe servers, and the groundskeepers.”

“But then why do the brochures say they accept all types of students?” 

“Princess,” Jorah explained patiently. “Perhaps they would accept them if they were qualified and could pay the tuition but there isn’t one commoner in a hundred in Westeros who meets that description. On Bear Island, most commoners stopped their schooling after primary school, and that is longer than in most places in Westeros. Only a select few are able to attend secondary school, never mind university, and that’s only with the sponsorship of their Lord. My understanding is that the Citadel is the exception to the rule as they have a tuition free secondary school for the truly gifted which can earn young commoners a spot in the university, but you won’t find commoners besides a small handful who are exceptionally bright and lucky and who are sponsored by High Lords or the King at a university like KLU. Even if they had access to the schooling required for admissions, they wouldn’t be able to afford it. Now in Braavos or Qohor, it is very different and that is why- but now I’m lecturing you. Forgive me, Khaleesi.”

She saw that Missi was biting her lip and looking at the floor and felt a flush of embarrassment at her ignorance. Annoyed, she decided it was time to brooch a new topic with Ser Jorah. “Ser, I had meant to tell you, I will be going to the theater with Robb Stark this Friday. I’ll need you to make the security arrangements.”  _ My protective bear will not like this,  _ she told herself, while wondering why she cared so much about Jorah’s opinion.  _ He is here to serve and protect me, not to make judgments about whom I choose to date. _

She saw something flash in his eyes before he looked at the floor and responded humbly, “As you say, Princess.” 

She and Missi talked excitedly about the day for the rest of the drive. Ser Jorah was silent.

When they arrived back at the Keep, Daenerys felt a moment of panic as Viserys approached, and she saw Jorah move close to her side. “How was your first day of university, dear sister?” Viserys asked sweetly. “Did you learn a lot?” Viserys was theoretically in his last year at KLU, but he rarely made an appearance on the campus.

“I enjoyed my classes,” she said stiffly.

“Well, we must talk more on Sunday, as I’m leaving for Dragonstone tomorrow for the rest of the week.”

Daenerys was surprised when Ser Jorah spoke up. “How will you travel, Your Grace?” he asked in a humble voice.

Viserys seemed surprised by the question and tone as well but answered with a grin, “Why, I’ll be taking my new car to Rook’s Rest in the morning and will take a ship from there. And the same on the way back. I have been much looking forward to taking the beauty out on the highway!” Viserys was very fond of fast cars, and unlike her, he was permitted to drive. Daenerys knew he had just received a sleek, black sports car as a gift from some Westerlands Lord.

“She is a beauty, indeed,” agreed Ser Jorah, curiously. “I assume you will take Ser Meryn?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Viserys answered pleasantly enough. “He’ll ride with me, and I’ll have a chase car behind me. That is if they can keep up.” Then his tone turned more malevolent. “But I wish you good fortune, Ser Jorah. This may be the last time you have the opportunity to speak to me.” Then he’d given Daenerys a kiss on the cheek and strode away. 

“What did he mean? Are you planning to leave?” asked Daenerys, suddenly worried. 

“Of course not, Khaleesi,” replied Jorah in a too calm voice. “I have no idea what he meant.”


	22. Lord - October 1283 AC

** _Lord - October 1283 AC_ **

_ Jorah had fidgeted with the buttons on his suit as he’d waited for Sarra to get ready. Her father, mother, and several of her brothers were visiting for dinner, and this was Jorah’s first time hosting a fellow Lord. It was also Jorah’s first time seeing her family since that terrible night ten months before. Though Jorah was a bundle of nerves, Sarra had hardly stopped smiling since he’d told her they’d be coming several days before. When at last she was ready, she stood before him as if for inspection. “Do I look presentable, my Lord?” she’d asked.  _

_ Jorah had returned home just a few weeks before after requesting a transfer to the Wolfswood Regiment due to the civil unrest and underlying threat of civil war, and though Sarra had forgiven him for what he’d done to her the last time he’d been on Bear Island, it was clear the incident was far from forgotten by either of them. Jorah interacted with his wife cautiously, ashamed and apologetic and terrified that he might hurt her again, even unintentionally with a harsh word or when he thrashed about in his sleep or in their moments of intimacy, for the act still seemed to pain her despite Jorah’s best efforts, and Sarra remained timid and perhaps fearful of the scarred, hard soldier who had caused her so much pain before. Yet despite her fear, Jorah marveled she’d seemed to have an uncanny sense about when he needed a gentle touch or word the most, for while he felt more in control of his thoughts than he had a year ago, he still had bad moments nearly every day. She’d continued to sooth him when he was plagued by nightmares, and she’d started to take his hand when she saw him becoming agitated during the day, and for these kindnesses, Jorah was immensely grateful. _

_ “You look lovely,” Jorah had responded standing. He noticed that she was wearing the necklace he’d gotten for her in Highgarden during the earliest days of their marriage. It was a simple necklace with a small golden rose, meant to represent Highgarden, but it had reminded him of the wild roses which grew on Bear Island. He’d sent it to her just before he’d shipped out for Astapor for the first time, when they’d been married just a few weeks, writing about its meaning to him and saying that he hoped she’d come to consider Bear Island home, and it touched him to see her wearing it now. _

_ “Jorah, thank you for inviting my family,” she’d said. “I’ve missed my mother terribly and am happy to see my brothers again in case they have to leave soon for war. I’d planned to ask your permission to visit now that you are home again, but this is just as well.” _

_ Jorah’s eyebrows had knit in confusion for a moment before he took a step closer and said, “Sweetheart, you don’t need my permission to visit your family or anyplace else you’d like to go.” She bit her lip and looked at the floor, so Jorah had reached out and taken her hands. “I may be your Lord husband, but that doesn’t mean I am meant to rule over you. It means only that I’m meant to protect you, to take care of you.”  _ Though I’ve failed miserably in that, _ he thought. “But I’d like us to be partners in all else, as Lord and Lady together. You have been a great help when I’ve been home… and much more diplomatic than Aunt Maege. I value your opinion. In fact, I plan to speak to your father about expanded schooling tonight. And you may visit your family anytime you wish or invite them here, there is no need to ask anyone’s permission. Alright?” _

_ She’d smiled slightly and nodded, and only then did Jorah express the main cause of his worries over the past several days. “Sarra, did you- did you tell your family what I did?” He quickly continued, lest she think it was an accusation, “It was your right of course, and I would not blame you if you did. But it would help me to know if I’m walking into an ambush.” _

_ “That was between you and me, Jorah, and I told you I forgave you. There was nothing for me to tell them.” Jorah sighed with relief, and leaned down to kiss her hands, which he still held. “Besides, if I had told, Robett would have showed up with his sword and you would have had to kill him which would have made me very sad, for he is my favorite brother.” Jorah hadn’t known what to say to that until she added, “I was watching that day you fought my brothers in the training yard back home. He hasn’t improved though he still likes to talk.” Then her lips curled into a smile, and she’d laughed. Only then did Jorah smile.  _

_ When Jorah had been fifteen and gone with his father to Deepwood Motte, Lord Glover had proposed a sword fight between Jorah and his own fifteen year old son. They had dressed in pads and helmets and gone after each other with blunted swords, Jorah subduing the youngest Glover boy in a matter of minutes. Then Jorah’s father had insisted he fight the middle son, a seventeen year old cadet at the Military Institute. It had taken longer, but he’d beaten that son as well. Finally, Robett, a fully grown man of twenty-two had challenged Jorah to save the Glover’s honor and spat insults at Jorah as they’d begun to fight. Jorah had received his share of bruises, but the bout had ended with Robett on his back in the mud, Jorah’s blunted sword at his throat. Jeor had been pleased with the result at the time, but later, he’d scolded Jorah for taking so many blows. “If those had been real swords, you’d be dead, Jorah,” he’d growled. Jorah had protested that Robett would have been dead first and thus never delivered his own fatal blow, and his father’s backhand had caught him across the mouth. “Don’t talk back to me, boy. I know a little more about fighting than you. You started out well enough, but then you got cocky, and cockiness will get you killed,” his father had said gruffly. “Yes, Father,” Jorah had replied as he’d tried to stanch the bleeding of his newly split lip. Despite the ending, it was a rather fond memory for Jorah and apparently one that Sarra found humorous. _

_ Dinner was served in the great hall, though it was not so great in Mormont Keep, and was as fine a feast as could be found on Bear Island with fresh fish, venison stew, and an abundance of ale and wine, though Jorah had slowly nursed his first tankard through the whole meal. Jorah had sat in the Lord’s chair with Sarra beside him, and talk had quickly turned to the potential war. Though Jorah spent a portion of most weeks in Deepwood Motte, the homebase of his new regiment, he’d also been given command of several platoons that were stationed on Bear Island to safeguard against raids in the event of war, and Ned Stark, Lord now that his brother had been burned to death by the Mad King, had ordered Jorah to mobilize and train men of fighting age on Bear Island. Since it was Bear Island, Jorah had allowed women volunteers as well, though the training was only mandatory for men and boys aged 16-30, and Lord Glover had laughed at the idea of women warriors. “Will you march your girls all the way to King’s Landing and have them take on the Unsullied, Lord Mormont?” he’d asked with a loud laugh, at least the tenth patronizing remark he’d made about either Jorah or his daughter. _

_ He’d seen both Dacey and Alysane bristle out of the corner of his eye and replied quickly, “The women of Bear Island have fought for generations. And most will only be used as a homeguard if I must take the young men with me. But if the Gods are good, the talks will resolve everything, and there’ll be no war at all.” _

_ “You think Lord Eddard will accept ‘talks’ after the Mad King murdered his brother? You’d be content with such a result after what happened to your own Liege Lord? You’ve spent too long in the South. Are you afraid to take on your old regiment, Jorah?” Robett had asked incredulously. _

_ Jorah had silenced Dacey with a look as he felt Sarra take his hand underneath the table and give it a gentle squeeze. “I don’t fear a fight, but I don’t relish the idea of meeting them in combat. There are plenty of good men in the South.” _

_ “How good can they be if they choose to side with the Mad King?” asked Dacey. _

_ “They’d simply be doing their duty to their own Lords and homes. How they feel about Aerys is irrelevant though they have taken an oath of loyalty to him, as have I, as has Robett, as has every military man in Westeros. The King may be mad, but his soldiers are not so different from you and I. Good men would die on each side. I’d prefer build up Bear Island, not have the population decimated in a civil war,” Jorah had replied. “Of course, if my regiment marches or if Lord Stark calls the Banners or if Aerys acts as an aggressor, I will not refuse the call, but I hope that it won’t come to that.” _

_ “And what are your big plans for building up Bear Island? Will you buy a few more saws for your lumberyards? Will you sell a few more bear pelts?” asked Lord Glover mockingly. _

_ Ignoring the tone, Jorah had replied, “Well, I’m glad you asked because I had meant to talk to you about it. Sarra and I are hoping to expand schooling for the commoners. We’d just start with completing primary school for now, but we’d hoped in time to add secondary school for those who show an aptitude. I know there will be some cost involved especially for teachers for the secondary school, so I thought perhaps we could have someone teach here three days each week and in Deepwood Motte on the other days to split the burden. We’d provide housing on Bear Island of course.”  _

_ Lord Glover had turned serious and said, “And what does Sarra have to do with this?” _

_ “She gave me the idea actually. Lord Robert says that he is representing the people and wants to give them a voice, and Sarra pointed out that if they are to have a true voice, they must have a better education. They are barely literate as it is and know nothing of science or politics or economics-” _

_ Lord Glover had interrupted him with a roar of laughter. “This is why men rule and women obey. Have you lost your mind? Lord Mormont, though it was your own fault you had to ask, I should have warned you that my daughter was a simpleton when you asked for her hand. I didn’t think it mattered at the time since I thought that at least she could bear you sons, but as she can’t seem to do that either, I truly must apologize. Though perhaps you are a simpleton as well if you’d take her advice on such matters.” _

_ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarra’s eyes drop to her lap, and he’d felt his grip tighten around his fork and around her hand, which still held his under the table. Maege muttered something as well, though Jorah could not hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. “My Lord, I have no doubt that you are attempting to be humorous, but I’ll not stand for such unkind words about my Lady wife,” he’d said in a strained voice. _

_ Lord Glover had looked at him incredulously and said, “You seem to forget that she is my daughter first. I can say what I want about her. Gods be good, what would your father say if he knew you were following such advice? Surely you jest in saying Sarra’s nonsense is sound policy.” _

_ “She is your daughter, my Lord, but I cloaked her on our wedding day. It was a wise observation on her part, and I’ll implement it whether I have the support of Deepwood Motte or not,” Jorah had responded. _

_ “So you’ll waste your money unnecessarily educating your common people because a gentle hearted fool of a woman who can’t do her one actual duty as your wife told you to?” Lord Glover had barked. _

_ Aunt Maege had started to speak, but Jorah cut her off. “Lord Glover, I’ve told you already that I’ll not stand for unkind words about my Lady wife, and now I’ll remind you that you are in my hall and on my island. If you’ll not respect her as your daughter, than you will respect her as my wife and as the Lady of Bear Island. If you insist on continuing, we can take this outside to the training yard so that I may defend my wife’s honor, though I’ll use no blunted sword,” he’d shouted. He was on his feet without evening realizing it, his hand reaching for Longclaw, and then the hall erupted in shouts. _

_ When it was over, Lord Glover had stormed from the hall, demanding that his wife come with him though they’d planned to spend the night. Sarra had hugged her mother and her brothers and then fled from the room in tears, and Robett had given Jorah a slightly apologetic look, saying, “You are a rather quick tempered man, aren’t you Lord Mormont? You shouldn’t take my father so seriously when he is clearly drunk,” before he’d followed the rest of his family down to the docks. Jorah had stood seething with anger but also felt dismay at the fact that he’d upset his wife despite this entire evening being meant for her.  _

_ “Jorah, though rather hypocritical, that was all very noble until you threatened his life,” Aunt Maege had said. “You’ll need to apologize. Bear Island needs Deepwood Motte even if its current Lord is a pig. And I have no objection to your plan, but surely you know Lord Robert doesn’t intend to give the common people a true voice. This whole thing is about his honor and the honor of his betrothed, nothing else.” _

_ “We don’t need him, and I’ll not apologize unless he apologizes to Sarra first,” Jorah had snarled though he was caught off guard by her statement about Lord Robert’s true motivation. He knew that there had been accusations made towards Prince Rhaeger regarding his treatment of Lord Robert’s betrothed, Lyanna Stark, and Brandon Stark had ended up dead as a result, but he’d taken the man at his word about wanting to change the entire power structure of Westeros since Ned Stark had backed him up.  _

_ “That is your pride talking, not wisdom. And I daresay he’s no more likely to apologize to his daughter than your father is to apologize to you,” she’d replied. _

_ “Why on earth would Father have any reason to apologize to me? He would never have spoken about me that way if I hadn’t done something to deserve it. Lord Glover was not fair or justified in what he said. He was simply being cruel.” Maege had given him a long sad look that he hadn’t understood, but as his temper cooled, he’d continued grudgingly, “But I will apologize. I shouldn’t have threatened him, and you’re right, we need them. Now I must go see to my wife as I’ve upset her as well.” _

_ He’d found Sarra in their chambers, her eyes puffy though her tears had dried. He’d felt terrible, for he knew she had been looking forward to seeing her family, and he’d fucked it up as he seemed to fuck everything up. Though he’d wanted to hang his head in shame, he’d forced himself to look at her as he spoke. “Sarra, I will apologize to your father when I am in Deepwood Motte in a few days and make things right between our families. I swear I meant well. I thought I was doing the right thing tonight. He should not have spoken about you like that, but I let my temper get the better of me, and I- I messed it up like everything else in our marriage I suppose. I’m so sorry, Sarra, I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. Is there anything I can do to make this up to you?”  _

_ “Jorah,” she’d responded softly, “No one has ever stood up for me like that before. Of course, I am glad you didn’t kill him in the training yard and you do need to work on your temper, but thank you for coming to my defense. I’m not crying because of what you did, but because of how my father is. He is the one who ruined the evening, not you. I think he was always disappointed that I wasn’t another son for he never speaks of my brothers in that way. It means a great deal to me that you’d consider my opinion at all. We can expand the school without him if that is truly what you want to do. It just might take a little longer. I suppose you must apologize to him for the sake of the island and the port and trade and all of that, but I’m not sorry you said it. But could I come with you when you go so that I can visit with my mother?” _

_ Jorah had let out a sigh of relief and smiled at her. “Of course, and you can stay overnight if you’d like. I’ll stay at the barracks as I’m assuming your father won’t want me under his roof. I’m your husband. It’s my duty to protect you, to stand up for you. I swore to you that I wouldn’t fail you again, and I intend to keep that vow. I’ll keep working on my temper though, I promise. Let’s speak to Aunt Maege in the morning about the accounts and plans. We’ll need to expand the schoolhouse and hire more teachers, of course, and I’m sure I’m overlooking other things that Aunt Maege will point out.” _

_ “You should speak to Lord Stark about it. If he and Lord Robert truly mean what they say, then he might want to implement changes for the whole North,” Sara had said hopefully, taking Jorah’s hands.  _

_ Though Aunt Maege’s words about Lord Robert had shaken him slightly, he still had faith in the Starks, so he’d agreed. “You’re father is a fool, you’d make a far better ruler than I. What would I do without my wise, gentle hearted Lady?” Jorah had said with a laugh as he swept her off her feet before setting her gently on the bed. Jorah had kissed her then, and when he’d felt her return it, he’d felt as happy and hopeful as he had in years. _


	23. Chapter 13 - Jorah - September 1300

**Chapter 13 - Jorah - September 1300**

Jorah sighed contently as he finished a large gulp from his second pint. With Viserys gone to Dragonstone, he’d finally felt comfortable taking his weekend off, and in fact, he’d felt a break was much needed given the events of the past few weeks- the Name Day Ball, his run-in with Lord Hightower, his partial confession to Daenerys, Viserys’ assault and the consequent confrontation in the dead of night and its aftermath, and being berated and written up and fined two months’ pay by Ser Barristan for his “insolence” on duty for dancing with Daenerys and drinking champagne. He had stood tall like the soldier he had once been and taken the tongue lashing with no excuses, but after being dismissed, he had found himself frozen in place. 

“Is there something else, Ser Jorah?” Lord Commander Selmy had said, looking annoyed.

“Yes, my Lord, I wonder if you are aware that the greatest threat to the Princess comes from her own brother.”  _ He is no fool. He must know _ , Jorah thought.

Jorah’s suspicions were confirmed when Selmy looked uncomfortable rather than angry, but the commander had replied, “My oath is to the King and the Royal Family. I protect them from threats in the order of their precedence. You’d do well to remember your own oath to the Prince and your obligation to the King as your sovereign.”

“What of your knight’s oath to protect the innocent and defend women, my Lord?” Jorah pressed.

“You’d dare speak to me of oaths regarding the treatment of women, Ser Jorah?” Selmy snapped.

“Aye, my Lord, I’d heard you were the most honorable man in all of Westeros, save perhaps Ned Stark. Barristan the Bold, they say you are called. I thought that might mean something.”

“You are dismissed, Ser. I will hear no more of this,” Selmy said. Jorah had not moved, and Selmy yelled “Get out of my office, Mormont. If you ever speak of this or any matter of honor to me again, I swear, you will find yourself out of a job.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” said Jorah, and he’d turned sharply and left, returning to Daenerys’ apartments seething, though he did his best to hide it. He didn’t want to upset her, and besides, he’d disobeyed her by even mentioning it to Ser Barristan all.

\---

That was not the end of Ser Barristan’s displeasure with Ser Jorah, for shortly after returning to Daenerys’ apartments after her first day of school, there had been a knock at the door, and Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, and several Unsullied walked in. Ser Barristan looked stern, Ser Jamie uncomfortable, and the Unsullied were unreadable as always.

“Excuse my intrusion, Princess,” said Selmy. “Ser Jorah, you have been accused of insulting the Crown Prince, and His Grace, the King, has ordered that you be punished. Please come with me.”

Jorah stood slowly but Daenerys leapt to her feet and stepped between him and Selmy. “What did he do? When did this happen?” Daenerys demanded.

Ser Barristan looked nearly as uncomfortable as Ser Jaime as this question but answered firmly, “Prince Viserys said it happened early this morning as he was leaving the gym. He said that Ser Jorah insulted his physical aptitude.” 

“Viserys doesn’t even go to the gym, nor does he get up early. And Ser Jorah was here in my apartments all night. He didn’t go to the gym this morning. That isn’t what happened at all. I will not allow this,” Daenerys said in as queenly a voice as Jorah had ever heard her use. 

“Princess, it’s not up to you. These are your father’s commands. Ser Jorah must come with us,” responded Selmy.

“What is my punishment to be?” Jorah asked softly. He had fully expected some sort of consequence for his confrontation with the Prince during the night, and he stepped forward slightly though Daenerys continued to block his path. He was suddenly scared for Daenerys, for if he were sacked, there was no one to protect her from Viserys, and though he would never admit it, he was scared for himself as well. He wondered how long it would take for Varys to find out if he was being fired and if there was any chance he could make it to a ship in the bay before his little birds caught up with him. He wondered if he could convince Selmy to at least let him keep his sword so that he could die fighting like a man instead of on his knees before Ned Stark.

Selmy could not meet his eyes but replied, “You are to be fined two months pay and to receive seven lashes.”

Daenerys’ distressed reaction pained him as did Irri’s gasp, and he’d cursed himself for not waiting until he was outside to ask the punishment though this was much better than what he’d anticipated. Still, he nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation, saying, “So I’m to be flogged like a common kitchen boy because the Prince says I insulted him?”  _ And I’m meant to work four months for free now? _

“You are no longer a Lord, and I’d hardly consider seven lashes a flogging. The King originally wanted a far harsher punishment but decided to be merciful. Particularly given that this is now your third disciplinary issue in three months, you’ve gotten off rather lightly,” Selmy responded, finally looking at him, as if this news was supposed to make it better.  _ Aye,  _ thought Jorah,  _ such mercy from the Mad King. I must thank him next time I see him and thank his son as well. _

“But he’s still an anointed knight,” Ser Jaime said suddenly. “Surely, this is not at all appropriate.”

Appropriate or not for his station, it was the King’s order, so despite Daenerys’ protests and near tears, Jorah had been marched out into the back yard between the kitchen and stables as servants bustled about where he stripped to the waist, handing his clothes to Ser Jaime, and with his head high and his jaw set, he’d endured seven stinging lashes from Ser Ilyn Payne. It hurt less than most of the beatings his father had given him as a boy- though his father had never used a whip on his back- but it was far more humiliating, for despite the past decade, Jorah still had a fair amount of lordly pride. Being whipped like a common servant in full view of dozens of common servants and a fair number of soldiers and lower nobility pained him far more than the actual lashes. His only saving graces were that he’d managed to convince Daenerys not to come with him, as he’d not wanted her to see, and that Ser Jaime had told the guards that it was unnecessary to bind his hands to the whipping post. 

When it was done, Ser Barristan asked if Jorah needed a maester. “Am I bleeding, my Lord?” he asked icily. When Selmy shook his head, Jorah responded. “Then no. May I have my shirt and jacket back, and am I free to go about my duties?” , 

Ser Barristan spoke in a low voice so that only he could hear, “I did warn you to remember who your oath was to, Ser Jorah, though I take no joy in being right about that. But yes, you are free to go.”

Jorah gave him a curt nod before quickly dressing and striding away, but to his great annoyance, Ser Jaime followed. “You know, the Lord Commander did try to stand up for you. The King wanted you to be given fifty lashes and to have your tongue cut out before tossing you out onto the street. Well, oddly enough, it was Lord Varys who actually saved your job and tongue, but Ser Barristan talked him down on the number of lashes.”

Jorah gave only a grunt in response, thinking,  _ So the Spider saved my tongue so that I might keep whispering my traitorous secrets to him, but what will he do next time? _

Ser Jaime sighed before continuing, “You took an oath to the Prince, but you defied him. Why?”

Jorah didn’t answer and picked up his pace.

“You were defending his sister, weren’t you?” Jaime said as he suddenly seemed to comprehend the situation. “And that was more important than your oath.” When Jorah still made no response, Jaime said, “I am truly sorry for the injustice of it all. You are a braver man than me. I’ve been too long in the palace I suppose.”

When Jorah re-entered Daenerys’ apartment, his anger melted away instantly when she rushed to him and threw her arms around his neck. “I’m alright, Princess. It was nothing,” he said softly as he returned her embrace gently with one arm, his other arm stiff at his side so as not to indulge too much.

“I know what you did for me last night, Jorah. I know that’s why Viserys made up his lies. Someday, I will repay you, I swear it,” she said in a determined voice as she looked up at him, her eyes swimming with tears. 

“I was only doing my duty, Khaleesi, and I would do it all again gladly,” he responded. In truth, Jorah knew he had gotten off easily, and he worried already about the next encounter with Viserys.

  
  


\---

All of these things had added up to an almost unbearable pressure, and that was before the events of last night. 

He’d stood in a theater box behind Daenerys and Robb Stark on what was supposed to be part of his weekend off and tried to pay attention to his surroundings, but all he could see was the young couple in front of him exchanging glances, holding hands, and eventually kissing as if he wasn’t even there, and he’d felt a yearning in his heart and in his groin. He’d cursed himself for those ridiculous feelings, but he was unable to banish them as the play had dragged on. When it finally ended, he’d sat in the front seat beside the driver as Robb and Daenerys giggled in the back. 

He knew nothing of Robb except that he was Ned Stark’s son and heir, and while a part of him respected the father for his honor, a part of him hated him and hated the son as a result. For years he had reasoned that it was Ned Stark’s honor that had forced him from his home and lost him everyone and everything he had ever held dear. It was Ned Stark’s honor that would not turn a blind eye to the misdeeds of one of his most loyal bannermen even as Boltons, Karstarks, Flints and scores of Southron Lords were rumored to commit even darker and more harmful deeds in their own fiefdoms. It was only Jorah who’d been fool enough to get caught though he thought his liege Lord had been biased against him ever since Lynesse’s accusations. Jorah was ashamed of what he’d done and knew he’d deserved to face Stark’s Ice on the executioner’s block, but despite his guilt, he’d held a grudge against his former Lord ever since, and those feelings carried over to the son. He also worried for Daenerys’ emotional state after her recent run-in with her brother. Of course Robb seemed an attractive contrast to Viserys, and he worried she was rushing into things for the wrong reasons.

After Robb wished her goodnight, Jorah said carefully, “He seems like a fine lad, Princess, but you must be careful not to fall too hard too soon. You’ve only just met him.” She had replied angrily that he shouldn’t treat her as a child and had not spoken to him the rest of the walk back to her apartments. He told himself that he was only looking out for her best interest and that what he’d said had nothing to do with jealousy, but deep down, he knew better. 

\---

When he’d left the Keep a few hours ago, he’d waffled about his destination for nearly half an hour before deciding that he’d earned a few pints. He had promised himself that he’d keep it to a reasonable number, no more than three or maybe four, and that he’d have no whiskey. He headed to a pub frequented by Northerners in the city, where he knew he could find a good ale and rugby on television and perhaps overhear some unfiltered news of the unrest in the North and other parts of Westeros, and settled into a corner booth to watch a match and try to forget everything for a few hours.

He noted a uniformed Gold Cloak enter the pub, and from habit, he ducked his head. He did not entirely trust what Varys told him, and since he wasn’t acting in the King’s service, he did his best to avoid Gold Cloaks each time he left the Keep on his days off just in case the warrants were still out there. Before he knew it, he’d drained his second pint, and when the barmaid brought a third, he stared at it for a moment, trying to slow himself down. Suddenly, a voice at his elbow interrupted his thoughts. “Are you drunk?”

His eyes shot up and his jaw dropped as he looked upon a ghost. A slightly aged ghost, his mind registered after a second, and then after another moment, reality returned. “Dacey?” he gasped and stumbled to his feet. 

She looked stern in her Gold Cloak’s uniform, and slightly older, but otherwise was unchanged from when he’d last seen her eight years ago. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“But what are you doing here?” he sputtered.

She laughed at that, answering, “Well, the national police in their infinite wisdom have finally decided to become national. They’ve initiated some training and conferences to bring together officers from all of the kingdoms, particularly in light of the recent unrest, so here I am. I’d heard a rumor that you were in King’s Landing, and I made some inquiries about where I might find you. My job is to make inquiries after all, not that you make it hard. A pub, how typical, Jorah.” Her voice was suddenly bitter. “You never answered my question though. Are you drunk?”

“I- no, I’ve only had two.” Dacey raised an eyebrow at that, and Jorah continued, “And no whiskey at all. This was to be my last pint.” He waited for a response, but when none was forthcoming, he continued, “Will you join me? I can order food.” When she still did respond, he added tentatively, “Or are you here to arrest me?”

“Don’t be such an idiot, Jorah. I’m not hungry, but I’ll have what you’re drinking,” she replied, sitting, and Jorah sat down opposite her. He flagged the barmaid for a pint for Dacey, and for a few moments, they sat in silence. Dacey watched him with piercing eyes, and he found he could not hold her gaze for long.

“Your eyes always gave you away, Jorah,” she said at last. “Your father was forever trying to force you to meet his eyes, but you never could when you were guilty or ashamed or scared.” Jorah caught himself rubbing his hand nervously over the stubble beneath his lip as they waited, and forced it back to his glass, but then he’d had to resist the urge to take a long drink. Her drink came at last, and she started to take a sip before pausing and clinking her glass to his. “Cheers. To reunions. I’d never thought to see you again. I thought perhaps you’d died.”

“To reunions,” Jorah managed to reply, his throat tight. They eyed each other in uneasy silence then as both worked on their pints, Jorah taking care to drink no faster than her. “You look well,” Jorah said finally.

Dacey snorted. “I shall not lie and say the same of you.” Then she softened, and said not unkindly, “I prayed for you, you know, even as I hated you. The tabloids said Lynesse divorced you and had all sorts of scandalous details which I assumed were mostly made up, but then there was nothing. For so many years. My mother pretends like she has forgotten you, and Alysane followed her lead. The younger girls hardly remember you. But I could not forget. You were my brother, once.”

“Only once?” Jorah asked. When Dacey did not respond, he continued, “And how are you? I see you are a lieutenant colonel now, well done. But are you happy? Have you met anyone?”

Dacey laughed and responded, “Much has happened in- how long has it been? Eight years? Much has happened, Jorah, and I am happy enough, but there is no man. Aly is married with two children though.”

“Oh? And who is her husband?”

“A commoner from Deepwood Motte, you would not know him. She and the children carry the Mormont name. And you? Is there a woman in your life? Or perhaps two or three?” When Jorah shook his head, her face became hard and she said, “I find that hard to believe. I haven’t known you to be without since you figured out how your cock worked at whatever ridiculous age that was. You moved on from Sarra quickly enough. Surely Lynesse doesn’t still hold your heart. I suppose with your lack of lordship and your graying, balding head, it might be a little harder to find a willing girl than it once was, but there are always whores for that, are there not?”

Jorah sighed before replying, “There is no woman, Dacey.” 

Her eyes softened, and she answered, “Alright. That wasn’t fair of me, Jorah. I believe you.”

“And how is my father? And your mother?” he said, eager to change the subject.

“My mother is well and busy running the Island. Your father is in good health, and as hard as ever, or even harder from what I hear. I’ve not seen him in several years although he writes from time to time. He has not come back to Bear Island since you left. I think it would pain him too much.”

“If I were to get a pardon, do you think I might come home?” he blurted without meaning to do so.

“Oh Jorah,” Dacey said sadly, “Is that what you’re doing? Do you truly think the Mad King will bother to give you such a thing? And do you think a pardon from the Mad King will mean anything in the North? Do you think a piece of paper will make your father or my mother forgive you or give you back your lordship?”

“I do not want the lordship. It is yours, after your mother. I only hope that I might return to the Island. I- I could be happy just living in one of those isolated cabins on the western shore. I don’t need much. Perhaps you could give me a hunting permit, I could live on that and fishing, nobody would even have to see me. Or if that is too much to ask, might I not just visit once more before I die? I expect no forgiveness from our parents, but might you ever find it in your heart to do so? Dacey, I am sorry. For everything.”

“Do you have any idea what happened after you left?” she snapped. “I woke up early that morning, and when you weren’t in the dining room, I’d assumed you had gotten up even earlier and already headed down to the harbor, but the cook said you had not eaten. Then suddenly there were soldiers and Gold Cloaks from Winterfell pounding on the door demanding to know where you were with Lord Stark himself behind them. They searched every inch of the Keep and the entire island. They questioned my mother, and Alysane, and me, and even Lyra and Jorelle as if they had any clue what you’d done. I didn’t even believe them when they told me the charges, not at first, but the evidence was all there and there was no other explanation for you to flee like that. After they couldn’t find you, Lord Stark spoke to my mother for a long time, and then he came out and told the whole village that there was a warrant for your head and that anyone with knowledge of your whereabouts was obliged to share it. I was placed on leave as a Gold Cloak until it was determined that I had nothing to do with your crimes or escape. It was humiliating and terrifying for us, Jorah. And you didn’t even say goodbye.”

She paused for breath, and when she continued, it was in a softer, sadder voice, “You shamed the Mormont name. You betrayed everything we stand for and you left us desperately poor. The island still has not recovered financially, and the people have suffered as a result. I don’t think you’d be welcomed by them, nevermind by us. And then there are all the men you pissed off by fucking their wives or daughters. Fool that you are, you thought nobody knew, but they were only silent because you were their Lord. One man beat his wife nearly to death after it was known that you were gone for good. He’d held onto that anger all those years. As if his wife or any of the women had a choice in what you did with them.”

“I didn’t force myself on any of them,” Jorah interrupted, paling slightly at this revelation. “And that was decades ago.”

“Alright, so you are no Roose Bolton, congratulations. But you were still their Lord. What poor common girl would dare say no to that? And after you used them, you discarded them like they were nothing and left them to face their husbands’ wrath when you fled. You know people in the North have long memories.”

“I- I never meant for any harm to come to any of them,” was all he could manage in response. Jorah thought to ask the name of the woman whose husband had nearly killed her, but he feared the answer, so he did not. 

“Just as you never meant any of the other terrible things you did, Jorah? But those were the least of your sins. The point is, I don’t know if you’d be welcomed back by anyone. If you’d stayed and faced justice like a man, Lord Stark would have allowed your body to be buried on Bear Island, and your head could have joined it after a time. Instead, you ran like a coward, and now even your bones might not be welcome. I don’t understand what you did, Jorah. I don’t understand how the kind, smart boy I knew turned against everything he was raised to be and became such a foolish and selfish man.” 

Jorah could think of no answer, so he drained his glass and called for another. When it came, he took a long gulp, until he felt Dacey touch his arm. “Jorah, what happened to you?”

He hung his head in shame. “I do not know,” he mumbled, wanting to tell her of Astapor, Pyke, and the Rhoyne, Sarra’s loss and Lynesse’s betrayal, Volantis and the Dothraki, and Varys’ blackmail, but he could not. “I never struck Lynesse though,” he added stubbornly. 

“I know that, Jorah,” she replied, and there may have been tears in her eyes, “but you did the rest, did you not?”

“Aye,” he whispered. “But I am not that man anymore. Please, Dacey, forgive me.”

“That’s what you said with Sarra, but then you only got worse. So this new man, is he better or worse still?”

“Better, I hope,” he said miserably. He had hoped for a reunion with Dacey for so long- prayed for it even- yet now, nothing was going right.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Dacey said sharply. “And now you serve the Mad King.”

“I serve his daughter, Princess Daenerys. She is nothing like her father. She’s kind and smart and…” Jorah faded off, unsure how to explain what she was like and what she meant to him.

“You’re a fool, Jorah,” Dacey responded, and Jorah had nothing to say to that.

They sat in silence for a while longer, before Dacey spoke again. “I must go now. You’ve always been a miserable drunk, Jorah, so please make this your last pint. Be careful. Don’t go taking a bullet for that Targaryen princess of yours. I hope we meet again, brother.” Then she embraced him briefly and was gone. And Jorah somehow stopped himself from ordering another drink.

\---

Jorah returned to the Red Keep on Sunday morning. Daenerys gifted him with a glowing smile when he entered her apartments, and he felt his heart flutter as she asked after his weekend. He gave her a few vague answers, and she then proceeded to tell him about an upcoming date she’d planned with Robb and then more somberly, she told him that her father wished for her to go on a date with Quentyn Martell as well. Jorah managed to keep an impassive face throughout. 

Shortly after the midday meal, Lord Commander Selmy called Ser Jorah on his radio. As he’d yet to have a single pleasant encounter with the man, he felt a sense of dread as he walked quickly to his office, unsure of what he’d done wrong this time. Perhaps Viserys had returned and was demanding a harsher punishment. He knocked and stood stiffly at attention after entering. 

“Ser Jorah, I have some bad news,” Ser Barristan said, his voice tense. “The Prince has been killed in a car crash. That means the Princess is next in line to the throne. She will fall under the protection of the Kingsguard now, but as she seems rather fond of you, I will allow you to stay on her detail as well. Although I suppose you are free of your oath to Viserys now. Do you wish to stay?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Jorah answered instantly.

“Very well, I’ll have you sign a short term contract until the King decides if you’ll take your new oath to him or to Daenerys.”

“Who will tell the Princess?” Jorah interrupted. 

Selmy glared, but answered, “I will, but I thought it might help if you are present.” He paused, then continued, “I do not like you, but I must admit that you have done your duty well thus far. I know that business with the paparazzi and the dance were not entirely your fault and the matter with the Prince- well, you have made no excuses. I know the Princess trusts you. Misplaced though that trust may be, she will have enough on her plate as the new heir to the Iron Throne, and I will strive to disrupt her life as little as possible.”

\---

Daenerys was almost impassive when she learned about her brother’s death, although later that evening, Jorah saw a sadness in her eyes. He asked if she needed anything, but she shook her head and went into her room without another word. 

As details of the crash emerged over the coming days, it was ruled an accident. Viserys was known for driving recklessly, and it seemed he had been taking the narrow, winding roads near Rook’s Rest far too quickly when he had swerved to avoid an oncoming semi truck that had drifted just over the centerline as he came around a corner. The car burst into flames upon impact with a concrete barrier, and he and Ser Meryn burned to death before they could be rescued. Those in the chase car said they had fallen behind, and when they came upon the crash scene it was too late. The only thing suspicious about the whole accident was that the driver of the semi was found at the bottom of a steep incline next to the crash site, his neck broken. It was ruled a suicide, the man must have realized he’d caused the death of the Crown Prince and killed himself in regret or terror. Jorah felt no sorrow at Viserys’ passing, but when he had heard this last detail, he’d been filled with dread. Daenerys had made only one comment on her brother’s death. 

“Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she’d said softly, and Jorah had not understood. 


	24. Cousins - October 1291 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you having a hard time keeping track of my very non-chronological flashbacks, this happens 4 months prior to Lynesse's false accusations.

** _Cousins - October 1291 AC_ **

_ Jorah had glanced at his watch impatiently as the horse trader took his time examining each animal carefully. He’d hoped to have this business done with before the rest of the household got up for the day, and as he stole a nervous glance at the Keep, he saw lights were already on in second floor windows. _

_ Tom, who kept the stables, and several of the stable boys had stood impassively by, but Jorah thought he could see scorn in Tom’s eyes. He’d felt anger rise inside him, at the trader for being too slow, at Tom for judging him, at the stable boys for being witnesses to his humiliation, at his aunt and cousins for not being more welcoming to his wife, and at himself for his own feeling of helplessness. He’d heard a whisper from some dark corner of his mind that said he should be angry at Lynesse as well for being so unreasonable, for demanding so much of him, but he silenced that whisper quickly with a muttered curse. _

_ Jorah had never enjoyed desk work but over the past months, he had found himself desperately trying to balance the books even as additional expenses from his newest purchases for Lynesse piled up. House Mormont was a poor house and Bear Island a poor seat, and Jorah had found himself drowning in debt with no idea of how to pay it all back. He’d already siphoned away most of the money meant for the general operation of the island and used up the entire fund he’d been setting aside for years for his two pet projects- a health clinic for the island with a backup power generator and a secondary school for the island’s children- in a desperate attempt to keep Lynesse happy and to pay his creditors. Now he had finally reached the point that he had said no to several of Lynesse’s requests, and she had been punishing him as a result. _

_ She had always known that he could not resist her touch nor bear to see her unhappy, so in the past when she’d wanted something and he’d argued, she would fix a pout on her face and stroke his cheek, or gently rub his groin and ask if he truly loved her or just her body, and he’d always agreed to whatever she wanted, but now, when he’d stuck firm to his no, she’d either fly into a rage, verbally assaulting him, questioning his love, questioning whether he was really a Lord, and sometimes adding a slap across his face, or even worse, she would touch him gently ever so briefly and then with tears in her eyes withhold anything further as punishment, and Jorah had found himself banished to the guest chambers far too often for his liking. Away from her loving embrace, he’d found his nightmares returning with a vengeance, and he’d begun to drink heavily once again after years of having the habit decently under control. He’d try to reason with her, but when she questioned his love and standing, a nagging whisper told him it was true, that he was not a worthy husband for anyone, let alone someone like her. He’d mistreated his last wife horribly, and of course he’d not gone to such extremes with Lynesse, but he certainly wasn’t making her happy and providing for her the way he should, the way a Lord should provide for his Lady, especially a Lady like her. Yet, the cost was too high for a Lord of Bear Island. He’d already sold several pieces of artwork and antiques that were family heirlooms several months before, and Aunt Maege had been furious, but that extra money had lasted no time at all. Desperate once again for some extra income and even more desperate to get back in his wife’s good graces and bed, he’d called the horse trader. _

_ When the man finally finished with his assessments that morning and gave him an offer, he’d been furious. “Do you mean to rob me blind?” he’d nearly roared. “My stallion alone is worth twice what you’re offering.” He’d haggled with the man for a few more minutes before he’d finally been given an acceptable price, and so he reluctantly shook and stood aside as the horses were led into the trailer, pausing only to give his own faithful stallion one last pat though he’d bristled angrily when one of the stable boys named Asher had done the same. “Get out of the way, boy. You’re forgetting your place,” he’d barked, and Tom had pulled the boy back out of Jorah’s reach quickly, perhaps sensing that his Lord was on the verge of cuffing him. _

_ “Yes, m’Lord, sorry, m’Lord,” the boy replied quickly. In truth, Jorah rather favored Asher most of the time, treating him far too familiarly for his lowborn station, even allowing him to serve as a squire of sorts though Jorah, unlike nearly every other Lord in Westeros, had never had use of an official squire. He’d let Asher ride his stallion from time to time, but now it irked him that the boy seemed to think that these occasional rides gave him a connection even remotely close to the one Jorah had. He’d loved his horse, a blue roan he’d named Shadow, and he’d wanted to sell Dacey’s or Aunt Maege’s or even his other horse, a calm mare, instead, but he didn’t want to deal with the women’s wrath and he knew his stallion was worth far more than his mare, as much as it hurt to sell him. It would be worth it for Lynesse, at least that’s what he told himself. _

_ “No,” he heard a shrill voice scream, and he’d turned to see Jorelle running towards him, followed by Dacey and Aunt Maege. “What are you doing, Jorah?” Jorelle had screamed, tears running down her face. “She’s mine!” Jorelle adored Jorah. When she’d been younger, she’d loved to climb onto his lap and have him read to her, and even now, she’d sit enthralled as he told her stories. It pained him to see her so upset, but he didn’t know what else he could do. _

_ “Jorah, why would you do this? Why would you sell the girls’ horses?” asked Dacey angrily. _

_ “The horses belong to House Mormont,” Jorah had corrected her. “I’m the head of the House. It’s my right to sell them. We don’t need so many horses. Most of you don’t ride often. Besides, I’m selling my own as well. We can share those I’m keeping between us, and I’ll make it up to them when I get some more money.” _

_ “Lynesse hasn’t ridden her horse a single time, she probably doesn’t even know how. Why are you keeping hers but selling the girls’? And Shadow? You love him,” Dacey had argued. _

_ “You’re a fool, boy,” Aunt Maege had shouted. “You’ll never please that spoiled girl. You’ll drive us to ruin trying.” _

_ He’d wanted to grab Aunt Maege roughly then, but he’d resisted. Instead he’d hissed, “A word, Aunt. Dacey.” And he’d walked out of earshot of the others. _

_ He’d been relieved to see that they’d followed him, unsure of how he would have proceeded if they hadn’t. He turned to them and growled, “I am your Lord. Lynesse is your Lady. I respect your opinions, but if you ever disrespect me like that in front of the servants again, or any of the villagers, I’ll- I’ll-.” He’d had no clue what he would do, so he’d quickly finished, “I’ll not stand for it. You will respect me as your Lord. And you will never speak ill of my Lady wife aloud again. Is that understood?” They did not answer, and feeling trapped, he’d bellowed, “Your Lord asked you a question. I will have an answer.” _

_ “Yes, my Lord,” Dacey had said then, her voice dripping with venom. Aunt Maege had barely even nodded, and he’d thought to demand a more respectful response, but he’d decided to let it go. _

_ When the business was done and he’d gone back into the Keep, Dacey, backed up by Alysane, had confronted him in his study as he was pouring himself a drink. “There are no servants about, Lord Mormont,” Dacey growled, “So I am going to speak my mind. You are a fool, Jorah. You cannot buy that girl happiness. She is vain and spoiled and no matter what you sell, you will never be as rich as a Hightower. You will never be able to keep her happy. Stand up to her for a change, or let her go home to her father. She doesn’t love you, Jorah, only what you give her and perhaps the glory that was once associated with you, and I daresay you love her beauty, not her heart. You would never have allowed Sarra to-” _

_ “Keep Sarra out of this. This has nothing to do with her,” Jorah had snapped, rage building up within him. “And mind your tongue when you speak of your Lady. I’ve told you already, I’ll not stand for another word against her. And do not speak to me of love. You’re bitter because you’re thirty years old and have never known such love. I’m warning you Dacey, and you as well, Aly, I will not stand for this.” Dacey’s face had darkened with rage, and he’d regretted immediately that he’d spoken so cruelly to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize, not when she’d become nearly as bad as her mother lately. _

_ “You are dishonoring Sarra’s memory, Jorah,” Alysane had pushed. “The school, the health clinic-” _

_ “The health clinic will be built in time, and the secondary school was a foolish dream, even Lord Stark said so. I’ve given them a few more years than nearly anywhere else in Westeros, what more do fishermen, crofters, and lumberjacks need to know? And tell me, is it a sin to love another woman after the death of a wife? Would you have preferred I joined my father and his sworn band of rapists, murderers, and thieves to live out my life as a celibate monk on a frozen block of ice?” _

_ “And now you dishonor your father. I’d have preferred you not married such a horrid bitch and become such a fool yourself,” Dacey had spat. “You treat her like a queen while you treated poor Sarra like-” _

_ Jorah had felt his hands shaking, so he’d balled them into fists at his side to hide it. “Damn you, Dacey, you’d better watch yourself! You know I regret what I did to Sarra, but I did my best to make it up to her. I was not perfect in that either, but I tried, and she told me she forgave me. If that is not enough for you, there is nothing more that I can do because she is gone. But I did not die with her. I married Sarra because it was my duty, and now I’ve married Lynesse because I love her. I’ll hear no more of your resentment of my love and happiness, and I’ll warn you one final time, that I will not stand for such criticism or such disrespectful language about your Lady.” _

_ “And what will you do, Lord Mormont, if I criticize your precious little Lynesse again, or you for being such an idiot? Will you have me locked in my room? Will you banish me from the Keep?” Dacey snarled. _

_ “Keep trying me, and you’ll find out very quickly. I’ll do what I must to ensure that my Lady wife is respected under my own bloody roof. Now leave me. I have business to attend to.” He’d been relieved when they’d both stormed from the room because he wasn’t sure what he would have done if they’d refused. He’d downed several whiskeys once he was alone in the hopes that it would stop his shaking. He’d been surprised to realize that he wished he could speak to Sarra in that moment, for she’d know what to do. Of course, she’d tell him to stop being a fool and spending so much money, but she’d have said it in a kind way. It didn’t matter though because she was dead, and he could never speak to her again. Lynesse was all that mattered now. _

_ Later, as he’d looked at the books, he’d realized that this would only hold him over for another few months, and that was only if Lynesse kept her spending in check, but he’d sent off for new earrings from one of the catalogs that Lynesse was forever leaving on his desk anyhow. It was a small thing, nothing that he wouldn’t have gladly bought for Sarra if she’d ever asked for such a thing, but he’d hoped it would please Lynesse for a little while. That night, Lynesse had allowed him back into their chambers, and as she’d laughed in his arms and gifted him with kisses and much more, he’d told himself it was all worth it. _


	25. Chapter 14 - Daenerys - November 1300

**Chapter 14 - Daenerys - November 1300**

As had become a habit on many Sunday afternoons, Daenerys sat in her new living room, alternating between studying and talking with Robb, Theon, and Irri. Missi had her day off, or she would have been there as well. She also had been assigned a third handmaid, named Doreah, now that she was next in line to the throne, thought she was off on some errand at the moment. 

After her brother died, it had taken a while to adjust to her new life as the Crown Princess. After a respectable mourning period, she’d moved into Viserys’ larger apartments, and she found herself with increased security everywhere she went. Initially, Ser Barristan had told her that Ser Boros of the Kingsguard would live in the chambers next to her own and that Ser Jorah would move elsewhere in the Keep, but she had insisted that Ser Jorah remain and had been surprised and relieved when Ser Barristan had obeyed. She thought Ser Jorah had become almost paranoid about her protection, insisting they take a different route to the university every day, sitting in even on her seminar classes, and posting an Unsullied even outside the servants’ entrance to her apartments. He remained as kind and gentle as ever with her though, so she hadn’t complained too much. She’d also had to adjust to frequent meetings with her new advisor, the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, who was meant to keep her up to speed on political happenings. She found him annoying but also funny, and he’d grown on her as time passed. 

The transition was aided by the fact that Robb had slowly become a more regular part of her life even as she had to share nearly equal public time with Quentyn to keep her father happy. In the last month, Robb took her on several dates and visited her apartments to talk and have meals or just sit with her while she studied. Sometimes his friend, Theon Greyjoy, came with him, and while she found Theon cocky and rather disrespectful towards her handmaids and Ser Jorah, he could be charming and funny as well. She had forbade Ser Jorah to leave her alone when she felt obliged to invite Quentyn for brief visits in her apartments or when he took her on public dates, but she often asked him for privacy when it was just her and Robb. Today, he sat off to the side on a chair by the television reading something, while she and her guests sat around the table. She and Irri drank tea while Robb and Theon sipped on beer. Her political science class was learning about the Astapori Peacekeeping Operations and so she discussed it with Robb and Theon, who were both military men, sharing interesting tidbits of what she’d learned. “It’s good we went,” she said. “It seems we did a great deal of good in the region by freeing their slaves and removing their tyrants, although it’s a shame that the instability is back now. Perhaps we left too soon. Rhaegar was there and won some medals for bravery. I wish I had asked him about it when I had the chance. Robb, was your father there?” 

“No,” he answered. “He had his hands full in the North with the Free States. It was mainly Southron units that went, I think. I’m afraid my knowledge of the operations is a bit shaky.”

She continued on, telling Robb and Theon about the names of some of the more significant battles and the alliances and the heroes. Then she’d added, “Did you know that Missi and her mother were slaves there? Missi was just a baby but she was rescued by some of our brave soldiers and came to Westeros as an orphan. She never learned what became of her poor mother. I cannot imagine the evil of men who’d buy or sell slaves and wish we’d wiped them out completely before we left.”

“Perhaps we should go back,” said Theon, “and finish them once and for all. The army hasn’t had a good fight in years. Even the Wall hardly gets a skirmish these days from what I hear. I’d go to Astapor for such a cause. With their primitive militias, I bet we’d crush them in a matter of weeks. I don’t understand why it took so long the first time around.”

“What I don’t understand is the accounts of the fighting in Meereen. I thought they were our allies but it seems that several of the major battles were there. And the propaganda the Meereenese used was simply ridiculous. How could anyone believe the Westorosi army would do such things?” mused Daenerys. Suddenly, she remembered that Ser Barristan had mentioned that Ser Jorah had been in Astapor, and only then did she realize that he had been silent throughout the conversation. He rarely spoke much when Robb and Theon were around, but he’d chime in from time to time on topics with which he was familiar, and she found his silence odd. 

She turned to him, exclaiming, “Why, Ser Jorah, you were there, weren’t you?” and she saw that he was very still and pale, his jaw tight, his hands clenched around the book he’d been reading, and despite the chilliness of the day, she could see beads of sweat on his forehead.

He stood suddenly, and said in a tight voice, “Excuse me, Princess, my Lords, my Lady,” the last part directed at Irri, as he’d taken to addressing all of her handmaids as such recently, “I feel suddenly unwell. I’ll be back in a moment.” And then, he’d walked somewhat unsteadily from the room.

Robb and Theon exchanged a glance, and Theon exclaimed, “What’s wrong with him?” Daenerys shushed him, but he continued anyhow, loudly, “If talk of war affects him so, he must be a craven. He ran from Lord Stark, he probably ran in Astapor as well.”

“Shut up, Greyjoy,” Robb snapped. “I’m sure he’ll explain himself when he comes back. Maybe he’s just ill.”

It seemed a long while before Ser Jorah returned, and while he was no longer sweating, Daenerys noticed that his top button was undone and his tie was loosened, which he never did during the day or while guests were present. “Are you alright, Ser?” she asked.

“Yes, Princess, my apologies.”

“If you are feeling up to it, could you tell us of Astapor? You were there as a soldier, were you not?” she asked.

Ser Jorah took a deep breath and seemed to consider her request before answering in a gruff voice, “I’m sure your books and professor tell you all you need to know, Princess.”

Theon laughed, but Daenerys answered kindly, “I have to write an essay. I could use your first hand account.” She could tell that something of the subject pained him, but she was suddenly very curious. 

Jorah gave a bitter laugh before saying softly, “I don’t think my account would do much good in your essay. I was just a platoon leader on the ground and never privy to the big picture and politics like the generals and High Lords making the decisions from Westeros. I’m sure that’s what your professor is interested in. It’s a political science class after all.”

“Please, Jorah,” she persisted. She did not understand why he seemed to be avoiding her question. He was always so honest and forthright with her, unlike nearly everyone else who spoke to her only with pretty and polite words. “I’d like to hear what you think of the operations.”

“Very well,” Ser Jorah replied but he said nothing more for a few moments, and she thought he looked as if he was struggling to breath. Finally he continued, “The truth is that most of what is written in that book of yours- it was far more complicated than that. Even the name is mostly a lie. I had two deployments there. The first started when I was a brand new 2nd Lieutenant, very early in our involvement there. We weren’t there to keep the peace or to free slaves. We were there to ensure that the side that would be more friendly to Westeros won the civil war. The region is so mineral rich, when a civil war began, it was thought that it would be in the best interest of Westeros to support the rebel regime and install them in power and I arrived just after that changeover had taken place. So we kept the piece for a regime that was unpopular with a large portion of the population. There were a few real battles against Astapori militias loyal to the old regime which we won convincingly. I returned for a second deployment about a year after my first ended, just after my 21st name day. By then, the fighting had spread to Yunkai and Meereen, and it was an all-out war, although I never figured out exactly who was fighting whom though it seemed that everyone was fighting us by then.”

“I’ve read parts of a few books since, including that one you have there, and what they say does not match up with the truth of what I saw. I was just a junior officer in a frontline combat unit, and as I said, I was not in the briefings of the generals and High Lords, but what I saw- Aye, we freed some slaves in Astapor, but not all of them, not even close. It wasn’t even an official part of the common soldier’s mission. In fact, we let those leaders whose alliances we sought keep their slaves and expand their own trade. The president we installed said he would free slaves and lift up the poor, but he kept slaves himself. It was all just talk. And in Yunkai and Meereen, we didn’t even pretend to free anyone. We were supposedly there to keep the peace, but it seemed a war of conquest at times. Many of the natives certainly felt that way. Meereen was our ally the first time I was there, but by the time I went back, we’d occupied their territory when their own leadership objected to our interference, and the same was true with Yunkai. All three countries were in the midst of civil wars, and we were the foreign invaders in the middle of it all. After we crushed them a few times early on, the enemy would never meet us in the open field. There were few true battles, just continual, daily firefights, ambushes, sniper attacks, and bombs. The Sons of the Harpy, the insurgents were called, but there was no way to tell them apart from civilians when they took their masks off. They’d sneak up on us in alleys or ambush us out in the foothills or blow themselves up at our checkpoints and then melt away when reinforcements or air support arrived. They’d goad us out into the open by trapping one of our units or by committing some massacre, and we’d respond in kind. We had many soldiers fight bravely and honorably, but our side committed atrocities as well. There was plenty of truth to the Meereenese propaganda. By the end, it was an open bloodbath throughout all of Slaver’s Bay.”

Though his voice was calm in his telling, his eyes had not left hers the entire time he spoke and something in his look scared her as if he was pleading for her to believe him and also to forgive him. He took a deep breath before continuing, “Princess, whatever the mission was never had a chance because the people did not want us there. The published enemy casualty counts were made up as often as not or civilians were included along with actual Harpies, but we couldn’t beat an entire population. For every Harpy we killed, we created three more. I don’t know what the overall strategy was supposed to be, but we didn’t win. No, we only withdrew and left the region in chaos after thousands of our own young men had been killed or wounded. I was not there in the very end, but I heard enough from those who were. There was no real exit strategy, we only left because-” he glanced quickly from Daenerys to Robb, “because of the dispute between His Grace, the King, and Lords Baratheon and Stark. Most of the units there were from the Crownlands, the Reach, and Dorne. The soldiers were needed back home. And once we were home, they acted as if-”

Daenerys waited for Ser Jorah to continue, but he seemed to be done.

“Surely it could not have been that bad, Ser Jorah, fighting such an inferior opponent,” Robb blurted, and Theon added, “It’s no wonder it took so long, Mormont, if the foot soldiers all had your defeatist attitude.” 

Daenerys started to speak up, but Jorah beat her to the response, “Have you ever fired your weapon in anger, my Lords, or been fired upon?”

“Well, no,” said Robb, “Of course not, there have been no wars since we’ve become men.”

“I was at Pyke,” Theon argued indignantly.

“Aye,” replied Ser Jorah rather heatedly, “that you were. As was I. It’s where I earned my knighthood.” Theon’s eyes widened in surprise. Ser Jorah continued, “I’ll give you that, my Lord, it must have been quite terrifying as a young child to hear the artillery and the gunfire from the cellar as you sat in your Lady mother’s lap. The guns had quieted by the time we came for you, but I do not doubt that you were scared. But let me tell you, that one day assault on Pyke was a picnic compared to Astapor. Now the Princess asked me for the truth of my experience, and I shared it. If the Gods are good- if there are Gods at all that is- you will have a life of peace and never experience combat. But unless you experience it yourself-” Ser Jorah stopped suddenly and looked out the window and nobody spoke for a few moments.

“Did you ever see my brother when you were there?” Daenerys asked rather timidly.

Ser Jorah looked at her carefully before answering. “Princess, I do not want to tarnish your view of your brother. I have no doubt that he was a brave man. However, he was only there for a few days, maybe a week total, and from what I heard, he never went outside of our main, most secure compound in Astapor.”

“But he won medals! There were pictures of him in action in the newspapers, I’ve seen them!” she protested.

“Aye, Khaleesi, and do you remember what I told you about the papers?”

“So it wasn’t true?” she asked. Viserys had recounted Rhaeger’s glory in Astapor to her so many times as they grew up, her father had spoken of it. Surely it wasn’t all a lie.

“Nothing about that war-,” Jorah snapped before taking a deep breath. He continued more calmly, “It’s easy enough to stage a few photos. He actually came to the country. I hear he visited the main hospital in Astapor and was a great comfort to a number of men. That’s more than most. He may have wanted to do more, but it would have been foolish to put the Crown Prince in such a dangerous situation. Princess, my Lords, I apologize for my tone. I am truly not feeling well. May I have your leave to rest for a while, Khaleesi?” 

Daenerys gave him permission, and he bowed and walked into his room.

Theon and Robb spoke quietly between themselves about what had transpired, and both seemed to question Ser Jorah’s account of things, Robb repeating, “It couldn’t have been that bad,” and Theon continuing to belittle Ser Jorah’s bravery although he seemed shaken to know that he was at Pyke. Both men seemed eager to have their own experiences with combat so that they could dispute him further. Daenerys was silent.

\---

Much later, after Robb and Theon left, Ser Jorah emerged from his room. “Are you alright, Ser Jorah?” she asked.

His eyes were downcast when he answered. “Aye, Princess. Again, I apologize if I spoke disrespectfully earlier. It was half a lifetime ago, but sometimes the memories are still raw, and I allowed myself to get upset today.”   
  


“Did our troops truly commit atrocities, Jorah?”

“There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a gun or a sword and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Our soldiers were disciplined and acted honorably most of the time, but sometimes, even brave and honorable men snap. That is particularly true when their leadership doesn’t stop them. When you are Queen, you will have incredible power. Daenerys, when the time comes, I hope you’ll remember that while war is sometimes necessary, it is always terrible and that the main victims are usually not those who make the decisions.”

“I will remember, I swear it. And you, Ser, did you take part in any of these atrocities?” she asked taking his hands, dreading his answer and suddenly feeling weighed down by her future responsibilities.

He looked at her then, and she saw pain and ghosts in his eyes. “I did things that I regret, Princess, and I saw things that I will never forget, but I don’t think I did anything that could be called an atrocity. But that does not mean I always acted bravely or honorably.” He paused for a moment and then added, “How old is Missandei? I’d thought she was your age but she can’t be if she was in Astapor when our troops were.”

“She’s 19. The papers from the orphanage said she was born in Astapor though her mother was from Naath, that her mother was a bed slave, and that some Westerosi soldiers freed Missi. I don’t know why they didn’t free her mother as well. It’s why Missisandei first learned another language. She wanted to learn her mother’s native tongue.”

“I see,” Jorah said, and she thought he looked distraught. “I didn’t know.”

“And you’re sure you’re quite alright now, Jorah?”

“I am, Khaleesi, I’ve managed all these years, I think I’ll manage today.” 

She was still worried, so she approached him and placing one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder, she stood on her tippy toes to give his cheek a kiss. He responded with one of his rare smiles and said softly, “Thank you, Daenerys, now I am truly feeling better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be an Astapor flashback and will be graphic. If that's not your thing, you may want to skip it, although it will have some interactions with other characters from the present day story.


	26. Astapor - March 1281 - September 1282

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a war flashback chapter and includes descriptions that some people (most people?) might find disturbing. If it's not your thing, you may want to skip this chapter, although it does include encounters with characters in the present day story. Some of these characters will be very obvious and some will come into play later in the story. This chapter is also meant to explain Jorah's state of mind going into the chapter entitled "Truth" when he returns to Bear Island after his deployment.

** _Astapor - March 1281 - September 1282_ **

_ Jorah’s first deployment to Astapor had not been so bad. His unit had mainly manned roadstops and taken patrols through the foothills around the city or gone on an occasional raid, but they spent nearly every night in a fortified base with the officers housed in rather comfortable rooms. From time to time, someone took a potshot at them from a distance, and the whole platoon or company would open up on the unseen target, but they had only been in one true battle and a few other minor firefights. Of course, Jorah had been terrified during his first battle, a crushing victory over an Astapori militia, but he’d appeared outwardly calm, his platoon had performed admirably, and his captain and colonel had both praised his actions afterwards. He’d missed home, the flies were annoying, and the heat was suffocating even at night, but that was about the extent of his discomfort. He’d spent most of that first deployment in boredom, reading, writing letters, working out, and attempting to learn the Valayrian dialect the locals spoke, for most he encountered were relatively friendly, and he’d also spent hours playing cards, football, and rugby with the other men during their time on bases. During the entire nine month deployment, only one man in Jorah’s platoon had died, and only two more had been badly wounded. He’d felt the losses keenly, but he was a soldier, and it wasn’t anything he hadn’t been prepared to face. _

_ So when he’d arrived back again after nearly a year back in Westeros, he’d thought it might be much the same. It was to be just a six month deployment this time, shorter than the first one, and as the generals said the mission was almost complete, he thought that he might even go home sooner. _

  
  


_ \--- _

_ Just two days in country, he should have learned it would certainly not be the same. They were on a patrol in the foothills near the city, on foot as their armored vehicles had not yet arrived, and the heat and stench and flies were just as he’d remembered, when suddenly, he’d found himself flying through the air. When he hit the ground, he was momentarily stunned, his ears ringing and his throat and eyes filled with dust. When his senses came back to him, he heard gunfire all around him, and he’d scrambled to his knees. As he’d reached for his rifle which had flown from his hands, he saw a severed arm lying on the ground next to him, and he’d looked to his left to see a corporal who’d been just in front of him a moment ago missing an arm and screaming. _

_ He’d managed to calm himself and began to return fire, all the while shouting commands to his men and trying to stop the corporal’s bleeding. But they’d been outnumbered, and he’d feared they’d be overrun. It was only when several helicopter gunships came to their relief that the Sons of the Harpy melted away as quickly as they’d appeared. Later, only after he went among his men counting casualties, three dead including the corporal and five badly maimed, did he realize that he was wounded himself when a field maester with bandages in hand grabbed him. He’d looked down to see that his desert fatigue blouse was soaked in blood. It was a minor wound, his kevlar vest had saved him, but he had shrapnel removed and received stitches to his upper chest just inches from his windpipe. _

_ \--- _

_ Later in the first month of his deployment, Jorah’s platoon had been manning a checkpoint just outside of Astapor much as they had the year before. They’d inspected each car and wagon that passed through and patted down the people as well. Jorah had been standing in the shade a short ways behind the checkpoint studying a map when one of his privates began yelling, pointing his rifle at a woman who seemed to be objecting to the pat down. _

_ “Relax, Private,” one of the sergeants had said approaching. “She probably just doesn’t want your wandering hands on her. She knows a pervert when she sees one.” Many of the men had laughed. Yet the woman continued to resist when the sergeant tried to search her and spat in his face, and then the sergeant had grabbed her roughly and slapped her. _

_ Jorah had stuffed the map into his pocket and quickly headed towards the group, calling out, “Sergeant, that is quite enough. There’s no need to treat a woman in that manner. Let me speak to-” _

_ Suddenly, the woman had reached into her pocket and a blast had caused Jorah to stumble. When he’d recovered, the woman, the private, the sergeant, and several others, soldiers and civilians alike, were little more than bloody pulps, with a few other screaming wounded nearby. Blood and tiny bits of pulverized flesh dripped down Jorah’s face and left a fine spray on the front of his uniform although he seemed to be physically unharmed by the blast. Despite his shock, he’d somehow managed to order his men to set up a defensive perimeter and called for the field maesters to tend to the wounded and for his radioman to call for reinforcements. _

_ Later, as he’d tried to wash the blood and gore from his face at the back of a water truck, a captain from another regiment had wandered over and said, “So I hear the fucking Harpies are using women suicide bombers now. I bet they didn’t teach you how to deal with that during all the lectures on chivalry at the Academy, did they, Lieutenant? What kind of Gods would allow such a thing?” And the man had given a bitter laugh before wandering away. _

_ \--- _

_ In the third month of his deployment, Jorah’s unit, now operating in Yunkai, was sent to seize a weapons cache. The local guide led them to a poor neighborhood in an ancient part of the city, and the tightness of the alleys forced them to dismount from their trucks. Jorah had ordered a small detachment to stay with the trucks, flimsy vehicles with no armor, as for some reason their armored vehicles had still not arrived, and the rest fixed bayonets to their assault rifles due to the tight turns and followed the guide. _

_ Suddenly, gunfire had erupted around them, men shooting at them from the rooftops and from windows and from crisscrossing alley ways. Jorah shot one masked man, and turning a corner, bayoneted another through the throat, but then a man jumped from the top of an overhang near him, slamming Jorah to the ground. He’d lost his rifle, and they’d grappled for what seemed like hours but must have only been seconds, clawing at each others faces and throats, the Harpy’s mask knocked aside. As the man leaned his elbow on Jorah’s windpipe, cutting off his breath, Jorah had reached desperately for his handgun or his knife. Unable to reach them, he’d managed to grab a brick from the rubble on the ground beside him, and he used all of his remaining strength to smash it into the man’s face. The next thing he knew, he’d flipped the man onto his back and was smashing his head again and again with the brick, until he had no face and no head, and blood and bits of brain spattered Jorah’s face and uniform. _

_ He’d risen, his throat tight and gasping for breath, and looked for his radioman to call for help, but he saw the boy too far away to reach lying lifeless in a pool of blood. He moved towards the radio but had to fight off several more assailants. Pulling out his handgun and his knife, he’d shot one masked man in the chest and another in the back, and they were finally saved when another platoon arrived, as his men at the vehicles had heard the gunfire and called for help. When the reinforcements arrived, the Harpies had seemed to vanish as quickly as they’d appeared. _

_ As Jorah had looked around him, he saw that over a quarter of the men he’d led into the alley were either dead or wounded. Jorah himself was bleeding from a large gash in his thigh, although he could not recall how he’d got it. Those still walking were murderous with rage. One man shot the local guide, and Jorah had seen several of his men begin to rough up a few women who lived in a house from which they’d received fire, and a private who was little more than a boy himself shot a boy who could not have been more than ten. Jorah had wanted to allow it all to continue for a second, his vision red, his throat constricted so tightly that he could barely breath, and his leg suddenly throbbing with pain, but he’d calmed his rage and ordered his men to maintain their discipline. One man did not unhand a woman immediately, and Jorah had forcibly hauled him away by the back of his collar. He only paused to have his leg bandaged when they were back in their trucks, and he had it stitched up when they got back to base. Then he’d called his platoon together, said some words about the men they’d lost, and announced that the next man to break discipline and abuse civilians would be sent to the stockade. _

_ He’d nearly broken down when he was finally alone in his tent, but he was a Mormont and a soldier, and such men did not cry. That night, Jorah had awoken from a nightmare, drenched in sweat and shaking, and it had happened again the next night, and the next night, and the next night. And while he’d written letters home nearly every day when he’d first arrived, after that day, he’d found himself tearing up most of what he wrote, and the letters that he’d actually post were short and vague, or asked only for news from home or told harmless stories of the scenery, food, or culture of the region with no details about himself. _

_ \--- _

_ In the sixth month of his deployment, just a week before they were due to go home, his regiment had been told they were still needed and began operations in Meereen. They’d spent days on the move going from village to village mainly on horseback and on foot as there was still a shortage of vehicles. They hobbled the horses and dug foxholes at night to sleep in and ate nothing but MREs, and in the darkness those not on guard duty slept fitfully in the heat for it seemed that intruders slipped through their lines to slit a throat or two or toss a grenade far too often. On one such night, Jorah broke the neck of the shadow who jumped into his foxhole. When he’d pulled out his flashlight, he’d seen the attacker was more boy than man in truth, but he’d been armed with a knife, and Jorah had felt no sorrow for him. “You saved my life, Lieutenant,” said the young private who was supposed to be awake and on guard, a look of awe on his face. “If you’d done your duty, I wouldn’t have had to,” Jorah had snapped. “If it happens again, you’ll be flogged.” In truth, he should have been flogged for the first offense, but they were all exhausted and hungry, and Jorah didn’t have the heart to order the punishment with the men already crushed from the news that they would not be going home yet. _

_ On the last day of their extended patrol, they’d approached a friendly village and had been horrified to find the population slaughtered with many of the children crucified. Jorah had nearly been sick right then and there, but he was a Mormont and an officer and could not show such weakness in front of his men, so he swallowed down the bile and fixed a stoic look on his face even as others retched around him. His captain ordered Jorah’s platoon to bury the bodies, and the rest of the company moved on towards the next village. Jorah had thought to stand by and supervise, but he couldn’t ask his men to do what he would not, so he’d taken down some of the children himself. He’d found himself barely able to breath, in part from the stench, but more because it broke his heart to think of the agony the children must have endured. _

_ When they’d caught up with the rest of the company at a village near the outskirts of Meereen, he’d found Westerosi soldiers, including men from his own company, crucifying some of the Wise Masters, members of the leadership of the village. Their screams and the scent of their defecation as they were nailed to beams along with the wails of their wives and mothers assaulted his senses, and he’d felt his already raw emotions begin to unravel. He’d ordered some of the soldiers to stop, but they’d told him another officer had told them to do it. He’d started to shout at one of his fellow lieutenants who seemed to be overseeing things, when his captain approached and pulled him aside. “The order came down from headquarters, Mormont. We had to make them pay for what they did to our allies.” But how did they know it was these men, Jorah had argued. “It doesn’t matter exactly who did it, Mormont, we know this village is hostile, and this will make whoever did it think twice before doing something like that again. Look, I understand it’s been a rough day, and I gave you a hard duty back there. If you need to step aside for a moment, I won’t think less of you.” Jorah’s throat was so tight, he’d felt as if he was dying as he gasped for breath, and his vision started to blur. The captain shook him by his shoulders and hissed, “Pull yourself together, Lieutenant, you’re upsetting the men. I need better from my platoon leaders. We’ll get some rest soon, I promise.” _

_ Jorah had calmed himself enough that the captain let him go. “Yes, Captain,” he’d managed. _

_ “Good man,” the captain had replied. “Go see to the mess truck if it makes you feel better. Your men need to eat, and the navy mess has sent some hot food. I’m sure you’re boys are sick of MREs.” So Jorah had walked over to the truck to see about getting his men some food, and the petty officer in charge had given him a sympathetic look, which had embarrassed him. He’d never met the man before, but if he could see his weakness, what must his men think? He had no appetite, but he saw some of his sergeants devouring their food as they joked as if on a picnic, so he’d sat and ate and tried to ignore the screams and smells that surrounded him. _

_ That night, he had forced himself to write a long overdue letter to Sarra. “Sweetheart,” he wrote, “They still have need of the regiment here, so I won’t be coming home just yet. I’m not sure how much longer it will be, but I will let you know once they tell us more. I’m hopeful that I’ll be back before the new year. It’s so hot here, I’m actually looking forward to a winter on Bear Island. You needn’t worry about me though. Everything is fine here. We are in Meereen now. The city itself is both ancient and beautiful with architecture like I’ve never seen before…” _

_ \--- _

_ In the seventh month of his deployment, his regiment was back in Astapor. Morale and discipline were deteriorating throughout the Westerosi army, though Jorah’s regiment, being the elite, selective unit that it was, held it together better than most and his colonel had ordered all officers to ensure that discipline was maintained. Jorah ensured that the men of his platoon cleaned their weapons every day without fail, and they followed a physical training regime when on bases. They wore their uniforms properly for the most part and shaved regularly as well, though he allowed quite a bit of latitude in the field. Jorah made an effort to speak to each of his men, even the brand new replacements, often. He asked after their wives, children, and girlfriends by name, knew each of their hometowns, and made sure those who needed rest were rotated to lighter duties when possible. He liberally shared the cookies, chips, jerky, candy, and powdered lemonade that Sarra and his cousins sent him. He asked nothing from his men that he would not do himself. In short, he pushed his men and ensured that they remained disciplined but also looked after them and was mostly successful at keeping a calm and stoic expression in the face of each day’s duties, boredoms, and terrors, even as he felt himself unraveling internally. _

_ After yet another rough day in the field- the company had lost two men to snipers and then Jorah had possibly called in incorrect coordinates on an artillery strike though he’d double checked them, or perhaps the artillery unit had made the mistake on their end, but either way, the strike had killed a woman and her two young children in their hut- they were now back at the main fortified compound with twenty-four hours of rest in front of them, and the other junior officers in Jorah’s company were talking about going to a brothel. _

_ The men, officers and enlisted alike, talked incessantly of women and sex, and many visited brothels nearly every time they were back in the fortified safe zone of the sprawling main base. While officially off limits, the senior officers seemed to have decided to turn a blind eye to it in an attempt to keep morale up, and there were even brothels unofficially classified as for enlisted or for junior officers to avoid awkwardness- it was said that the senior officers had the women brought directly to them. Jorah listened to the talk but rarely participated, and he’d never joined his comrades on their trips to the pleasure houses. It wasn’t that he didn’t desire a woman just as much as the rest of them, it wasn’t that he didn’t daydream about them or steal glances at the local girls when they passed them on patrols, and he wasn’t so strong that he didn’t take care of himself with his hands under the cover of darkness when he was alone in his tent from time to time. It’s just that for him, it was a private matter, he didn’t want to speak disrespectfully of his wife or any of the other girls he’d been with in the past, and he could only imagine his father’s scorn if he knew that his son had even considered lying with a whore. He had found that he was woefully ignorant of women though, especially when listening to the enlisted men, and a part of him hoped he’d learn something so that he could better please his wife when he returned home. _

_ This night, Jorah was planning to spend his time alone reading or perhaps listening to the radio or attempting to write a letter home as he hadn’t done so in weeks when the lieutenant who bunked with Jorah when on bases, some distant cousin of the Florents who’d been a classmate of Jorah’s at the Academy and was perhaps a friend of sorts, had said, “Mormont, why don’t you come with us? It’s been a rough go, and it could do you some good to find a release in a woman’s arms. You might sleep better afterwards.” Jorah had felt himself redden at that, as he’d suspected that he’d woken the other man more than once with his nightmares. _

_ One of the other lieutenants made some jape, mocking Jorah as soft and hinting that perhaps he preferred men, and Jorah had been grateful when Lieutenant Florent had spoken up in his defense. Of all the officers in the regiment, Jorah had thought for some time that perhaps he’d found a true friend in this man, so rather than outright rejecting the offer, Jorah had said, “But I’m married.” _

_ Several of the men had laughed. “So am I, so are many of us,” said one of the other lieutenants. “And when was the last time you saw your wife? It isn’t natural for a man to go so long without. You’ll go insane. Besides, I saw you leaving that pub in Oldtown with that blonde girl a few days before we deployed. You’re no saint and what your wife doesn’t know will never hurt her. Just close your eyes and pretend it’s her if it makes you feel any better, although I guarantee these girls know better tricks. They’ll do whatever you want. I got the best blow job of my life last month. Has your wife ever even done that for you, Mormont? I’ve heard Northern girls are rather frigid in bed.” Several of the men snickered at that. _

_ Angry and burning with embarrassment both to know that he’d been seen in Oldtown and because he imagined his wife would be mortified at the very thought of taking him in her mouth, he’d snapped, “I’ll not stand for you speaking of my Lady wife in that manner. They’re all slaves anyhow, aren’t they?” _

_ “No,” his captain had replied, “some are, but not at the place we’re going. None of them have tattoos or brands or collars anyway, and they’re clean. Come on, Florent is right, it’ll take the edge off. You can forget about this damned fighting for a little while.” _

_ Jorah had never paid for sex before and felt appalled by the prospect, but it had been months since he’d been with a woman, and it seemed that it would be months more before he was home again, and he had a man’s needs after all. The others were right, he needed to find a way to release what he was feeling inside or he’d go insane. So he’d agreed. _

_ Jorah had felt embarrassed as his fellow officers picked the women they wanted and left the room, Florent winking at him as he’d gone, and finally, he was the only man left. He’d thought to simply walk out then and there, but he knew it would be unwise to return to base alone in the dark and the ribbing afterwards would be unbearable and the sight of the scantily clad women had already aroused him, so he finally pointed to one of the girls and paid the madam. He was shown to a small room and then he was alone with the girl. With no preamble, she’d begun to remove her already scanty clothes, and when she was naked, though he still felt guilty and embarrassed, Jorah’s body had reacted to her nakedness as nearly any young man’s would. He thought she’d looked terrified for a moment when she looked up at him as perhaps she saw the desire on his face or perhaps he just looked like a hard man, but then she smiled at him, though it did not reach her eyes, and asked in heavily accented Common Tongue, “What do you want, brave soldier? How can I serve, my Lord?” _

_ Only then did Jorah notice a small cradle in the corner mostly hidden by a curtain, and he saw a baby was in it. “Is that your child?” he’d asked. The girl had nodded and said, “Please, baby is asleep, no need to worry, my Lord. But I can have baby taken away if that’s better for you.” Jorah did not wish to disturb the child’s slumber, so he shook his head no. _

_ She did not look Astapori to him. “Where are you from?” he’d asked politely trying to keep his eyes on her face until he remembered that he’d paid for her, he could look at her all he liked, though as his eyes took in her curves he saw bruises and other marks of abuse. She’d told him she was from Naath, and then he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a slave, for no one from Naath would end up in an Astapori brothel by choice. “And how old are you, my Lady?” he’d inquired. She’d responded that she was eighteen but he’d thought that she was lying. _

_ He’d felt sick and wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” he said, thinking to leave but standing frozen. Gods, he’d wanted her so badly, well not her specifically, but any halfway attractive young woman would do and she was naked and certainly attractive right there in front of him. But she was a slave, she had no say in the matter, he might as well be forcing himself on her. But he wanted her. He wanted a release. He wanted to forget everything else even if only for a few minutes. _

_ She’d become panicked by his words- later he’d realized that perhaps she thought he wanted a different girl- and she’d said, “Please, master will be mad if I do not please my Lord. He beat me for failing. I can make you very happy. Tell me what you want.” And then she’d pressed her body to him and began to rub his already hard cock through his pants. _

_ Despite his disgust with the situation and with himself, it had been so long since he’d had any comfort, so long since he’d allowed himself to feel anything but toughness and anger to cover up his pain and fear, so he gave in to his desire. He’d nodded and stood almost passively as the girl undressed him and then he’d put on the condom she gave him and lay down with her on the small bed, feeling her skin against his, smelling her perfume though it did not quite overpower the scent of her sweat mingling with his own, and he’d closed his eyes and imagined he was somewhere else with someone else though he didn’t know who for he didn’t want to think of his wife in this moment, and he’d tried desperately to control himself and to be gentle because he didn’t want the girl to be scared of him and he didn’t want to hurt her as surely countless men already had. Though he thought perhaps she was faking it, she’d moaned beneath him which massaged his fragile ego, and it all felt so good that for a few moments, he’d succeeded in forgetting where he was and forgetting that he might die tomorrow. When he’d finished, he’d stayed on top of her a moment longer with his eyes still closed, feeling her arms around him stroking his hair and his back, and he’d whispered, over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” although he was unsure if he was talking to the girl or to his wife or perhaps to his mother. _

_ Afterwards, for reasons he could not explain, he’d asked if he could hold her baby, and the child, surely no more than half a year, had woken up and looked at him with beautiful, dark eyes. He’d nearly smiled as he bungled through some lullaby that his mother had sung to him a lifetime ago. Watching him, the girl had begged him to help her baby. He’d said there was nothing he could do, handed back the baby, and walked out, but over the next few days, he’d made inquiries about Westerosi aid organizations in Astapor, and a few weeks later, after more fighting and more death and more horror, the other officers had been pleased when he’d said he’d join them again. He’d picked the same girl, and when he was alone with her, he’d stopped her from removing her clothes, telling her he’d take her baby to a better life if she wanted but it must happen tonight. “Can you write?” he’d asked. She’d nodded, and he’d handed her a pad of paper and a pen. “Write what you will to your child.” Then he’d looked away as the girl wrote with tears in her eyes and then kissed her baby over and over. _

_ She’d told Jorah she must thank him, and while he’d initially said he needed nothing, he’d been aroused since he’d walked into the brothel so when she persisted, he’d suggested that she pleasure him with her mouth, and he’d hated himself for it. When they were done and he’d straightened up his uniform, he gave the baby a drop of milk of the poppy and put the sleeping child and the note in his rucksack. Then he’d walked out before he lost his nerve and left the girl sobbing behind him. _

_ “What did you do to her? Why was she crying?” asked Florent when they’d left, a look of concern on his face. “Did you beat her? I mean, I suppose it’s alright if you did, plenty of the fellows are rough with the whores, but I didn’t think you were that type.” And then Jorah had opened his rucksack and showed him the sleeping baby. “For fuck’s sake, Mormont,” Florent had sighed, but he’d gone with him to the orphanage run by a Westerosi charity, and there they’d left the baby along with the note. _

_ He had found no relief from his dreams that night, and he did not set foot in a brothel for the remainder of his deployment. He did begin to drink in earnest though on the rare occasions when he would let his guard down. It was prohibited even inside the main fortified compound, but alcohol was easy enough to find, although the drink was wines and fruity ciders instead of the ales and whiskey that he preferred. They did the job well enough though, and whenever they had their periodic 24 hours of rest, he drank until he passed out. _

_ \--- _

_ In the eleventh month of his deployment, his platoon had been preparing for a patrol near the plains of Meereen when an urgent call for help came in through the radio. A company from a Dornish Regiment was pinned down and badly outnumbered inside the city and taking heavy casualties. Jorah’s regiment was trained for quick responses, and as his platoon was already prepared for combat, his captain told him that they should do everything they could to relieve the crippled company. The battalion had promised air support would be close behind. Jorah now felt panic and rage nearly overwhelming him every time he set foot outside of a base, but he was a soldier who did his duty. So they’d loaded into helicopters and then repelled to the ground as close as they could get to the the Dornishmen without taking fire. _

_ As they ran the rest of the way on foot, the scene was a bloodbath. The Dornish had been in a convoy and were ambushed in the middle of an open square that sometimes served as a market, their column heavily exposed on several sides with little cover in sight. Jorah had barked commands for his men to assault a few of the alleys and buildings were most of the fire seemed to be coming from to try to drive back the Harpies, and he and his men moved into the withering fire. The buildings likely had civilians inside, but Jorah had decided they had no choice but to use their full arsenal if they were to save themselves. They took a number of casualties, but the enemy fire lessened slightly. He’d then ordered his platoon sergeant to hold that line with half the men while he and the others went to aid the convoy more directly. He’d given the order to move, and cursing under his breath, he’d taken off as fast as he could towards the stranded convoy, bullets whizzing past him and throwing up dust all around him. _

_ Jorah had managed to reach the first truck in the convoy, and briefly huddled down next to several other terrified men. A sergeant called for help in freeing a few men who were trapped in a burning armored vehicle. Jorah and the strongest private with him had done their best to pry open one of the doors as men screamed inside, but by the time they’d finally gotten it open and pulled out a few of the men, they were burned beyond recognition, and the skin of the man Jorah had grabbed came off in his hand. _

_ Then one of the Dornish officers, badly wounded in the leg, had asked for his platoon’s help in carrying the wounded to an evacuation site several blocks away. Jorah assessed the situation and told one of his sergeants what he was thinking. The man had replied, “We’ll end up with more dead and wounded trying to cross the square again right now, m’Lord. We’d be better off giving first aid here until the air support suppresses the enemy fire more.” _

_ Jorah was sure that the air support would be there soon, in fact, it should have been there already, so he told his radioman to check its status. “They say they can’t spare it right now, m’Lord,” the boy had said. _

_ Jorah grabbed the radio from the boy, gave his call sign, and repeated the question only to get the same answer. “Get me your superior on the line. I was promised fucking air support,” he growled. A major came on the line and when Jorah repeated the question and got the same response, he’d yelled, “Men are dying here, my Lord, and we were promised air support.” _

_ “Watch your tone, Lieutenant,” the major had responded. “Men are dying everywhere, and air support is needed elsewhere more urgently. You were told to relieve the Dornish, so do your damned duty and relieve them. Get the wounded to the evacuation site and keep enemy fire suppressed enough for the medevacs to land.” _

_ Jorah had slammed down the radio and forced himself to appear calm. He couldn’t show his men how angry he was, how scared he was. He had thought of his father then, and while he saw the truth of what his sergeant said, he knew what his father would have done. He was a Mormont and would not be a coward. “There’s no air support coming, Sergeant. If we don’t try to get these men out, they will die for certain. We will do our duty to save our comrades to the best of our ability. Get some heavy fire and RPGs on those windows over there and send 1st squad with me to move the wounded.” _

_ “Yes, m’Lord,” the man replied. _

_ So he and a few others had crossed the open square several times, carrying wounded men to the relative safety of the evacuation zone. When he’d returned to the Dornish officer, he had nearly lost consciousness and whispered that he was going to die. “Do you have a wife or a woman you love?” Jorah had asked, gripping the man’s hand, trying to keep him awake _

_ “I do,” the officer replied faintly. _

_ “What’s her name?” Jorah had asked as a field maester adjusted the tourniquet on his leg. _

_ “Her name is Ellaria. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. And you?” the Dornishman replied, looking slightly more alert. _

_ “My wife’s name is Sarra. I intend to see her again. And you will see Ellaria again. Hold on. I’m going to get you out of here.” _

_ He’d carried the wounded officer, who was bleeding rather severely despite the tourniquet out last, throwing the man over his shoulders and sprinting as fast as he could as bullets whizzed by until they reached the evacuation zone where helicopters were landing, and then he’d returned once again to his own platoon to continue the fight. _

_ By the time it was done, Jorah was covered from head to toe in dust, sweat, and blood, most of it from others but some of it his own, and his platoon had taken losses, but they’d saved the Dornish company and perhaps a dozen of the wounded. Jorah had been shot in his shoulder and spent a week in a field hospital before being returned to duty. Yet as he lay in his cot, high on milk of the poppy, he’d thought mainly of one of the privates in his own platoon who had died during the rescue mission. Jorah had held the boy’s hand as they waited for the chopper and helplessly told the boy lies- that he would be fine, that he’d go home, that he’d see his mother again and his girlfriend too- as he’d bled out. “Did I do the right thing? Was it worth it?” Jorah had asked Lieutenant Florent when his friend had come to visit him in the tent where they had laid him. _

_ “Is anything worth it in this damned place?” Florent had responded. “Don’t beat yourself up, mate. You did your duty. You were ordered to relieve the convoy, and you did. They knew you’d take casualties when they gave you the orders. You did better than I would have done anyway, you noble bastard. Now I brought you a present, so cheer up.” And the man had pulled a can of luke warm beer out of his pocket, cracked it open, and handed it to Jorah with a broad grin on his face. _

_ \--- _

_ During the thirteenth month of his deployment, Jorah’s platoon had been on a patrol in the back alleys of Meereen. It was a suffocatingly hot day, the sun beating down and dust coating everyone and everything, and Jorah had sweat through his clothes hours ago and had to pause to wipe sweat and dust from his eyes every few minutes. He had a headache and knew he was dehydrated, but he’d already drunk most of his water and did not want to drink the last few ounces until they were nearly ready to head back to base. His ankle, which he’d sprained several days before, throbbed and his shoulder was still stiff from the bullet wound he’d suffered several months before. He’d thought it ironic that a cavalry unit had been humping on foot the entire day, but armored vehicles were still in short supply, and Jorah, who was as strong and fit as any man in his platoon, had felt the weight of his gear and pack beginning to overwhelm him. Despite the threats around them, his mind had wandered dangerously that day, and he thought often of home. He’d pictured the shaded forests and the streams and waterfalls which ran icy cold into lakes even in the summer. He’d imagined he was walking through the forest and removed his boots to wade through a stream, scooping up handfuls of the cold water to drink. He could almost smell home, but as they’d entered the next alley, he’d forced his mind back to the present. He would get his men killed if he couldn’t focus. _

_ The men were jumpy, too used to ambushes by now. They’d had brief contact with a few Harpies earlier in the day already, and it seemed only a matter of time before they were attacked again. The civilians living in small hovels in these backstreets eyed them warily and with hostility, and Jorah, who had become fairly fluent in the local dialect by now, heard muttered curses under many of their breaths. As they came around a corner, Jorah had heard a crash and saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his sweat blurred eyes, and he had immediately fired several rounds in that direction, not actually seeing what he was shooting at. A half-second later, he saw a woman fall, and he’d realized his mistake. He’d rushed forward, praying that it was not serious, as he’d heard a child begin to wail, but when he’d reached the woman and rolled her over, she’d stared back at him with dead eyes. Jorah had stood in shock as a boy ran to the woman, clinging to her and weeping, and still did not move as a small crowd began to gather, murmuring angrily. _

_ “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” one of his sergeants had said. “She coulda been a fuckin’ Harpy, just took her mask off,” added a corporal. “We need to move, m’Lord, the crowd is getting dangerous and we’re sitting ducks here,” the sergeant had urged when Jorah still did not respond. _

_ Finally, he’d snapped out of it enough to continue the patrol, and when he’d returned to base, he’d reported what had happened to his captain. The captain had called in a major, and the major had told Jorah not to worry. “This was nothing at all, son. She was a Harpy, or at the very least harboring them. You’ve done well.” Jorah had not been convinced, and after the major left, his captain had said, “Mormont, don’t beat yourself up. You’ve been my most reliable lieutenant in the company, and I’d argue that is true for the whole regiment. You’ve truly done well. Hang in there. We’ll be home soon.” _

_ That night, the woman joined Jorah’s dreams. _

\---

_ In truth, it wasn’t all bad. There were moments of levity, moments of peace, moments of beauty, and moments of comradery. Parts of Slaver’s Bay were beautiful. Jorah had loved the local cuisine and the vibrant colors. In the early days of the deployment when at least some of the population was friendly, he’d enjoyed handing candy out to smiling children, and sometimes, the local women would give the soldiers local sweets in return. One day, his company had gone to a beach near Astapor, and the men had acted like children as they’d stripped down to swim in the warm water and to play volleyball on the beach. Once, the officers of his regiment had been invited by a general to a pool on the rooftop of one of the great pyramids of Meereen and had a grand time in the luxury. Another time, when they’d been on patrol in the rural area around Yunkai, they’d killed some wild boar and had a hog roast for dinner. _

_ Jorah had several jokers in his platoon, and though he had to tell them to shut up from time to time, he found them hilarious until one man had a leg blown off and was sent home. After that, his friend’s jokes were all dark. Jorah’s men respected him and would have followed him just about anywhere, and Jorah in turn would have died for any of them. The comradery he found both with his men as well as with his fellow junior officers was something that he’d craved his entire life. His sergeants had somehow figured out his name day and had the mess hall in Meereen make him a cake, and he’d been truly touched when his men had toasted him with powdered lemonade and sports drinks. _

_ And for the first time in his life, he’d felt that he had a brother in Lieutenant Florent. Several months after his last visit to the brothel, when they were encamped at a base in Meereen, Florent had stuck his head into Jorah’s tent. “Knock, knock, Mormont. I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have pushed you to go visit those whores. I should have known you have a bit more honor when it comes to women than the rest of us and give a damn about your wedding vows. I got you something to make up for it.” And he’d revealed a silver flask engraved with the regimental sigil. “I had a craftsman in the city make it. Now you can perhaps be a bit more discreet about your one bad habit. I would have filled it up for you, but I know, I know, you don’t drink on duty.” _

_ Jorah had been stunned nearly speechless by the gesture. “You shouldn’t have,” he mumbled. “And I’m not any more honorable than you.” _

_ “Nonsense! You write your wife regularly, you don’t look at the dirty magazines we all have, you only went to the brothel because I nearly dragged you there. I’m going to propose to my Lady when we get home, and I’d like you to stand as my best man. I have plenty of sisters and cousins and even a much older brother, but you’re more truly my brother, Jorah. You’re the best mate I’ve ever had. My girl will like you too, since you’re actually a decent man unlike all the rest of these crazy animals.” _

_ So Jorah, who’d felt entirely unworthy of the honor and the gift but elated to be considered this man’s brother, agreed, and Florent had spent the rest of the evening talking excitedly about what life would be like once they got home and promised to visit Bear Island. “Someday, years from now, we’ll sit outside your Keep looking out over the bay and retell our war stories while we drink a few beers and our wives talk about whatever women talk about and our children play together. It’ll be grand. And I suppose I’ll have to call you my Lord by then because you’ll be one in your own right, and I’ll still only be the second son of a second son of a third son,” he’d said with a boyish grin. “But hey, how many men in Westeros can say their best mate is a Lord in his own right with his own island to boot?” _

_ \--- _

_ In the seventeenth month of his deployment, Lieutenant Florent and three of the men in his platoon were briefly overrun by Sons of the Harpy during a routine patrol in Astapor. Jorah’s platoon had rushed forward to reinforce them, and Jorah had led ten men after the retreating Harpies who had taken Florent and a few others. They’d found two of the men quickly enough, one with a bullet in his head and another with his throat slit but could not find Florent or the private who was still missing with him, and the search had been suspended at dark leaving Jorah to spend a sleepless night praying that his friend had somehow escaped and was hiding someplace. _

_ The next morning, their mutilated, naked bodies were found hanging by barbed wire from lamp posts in a major city square. They’d had to call in a bomb squad to ensure that the bodies weren’t booby trapped, and when the all clear was given, Jorah had taken down Florent himself. _

_ The company went on another patrol that day, near the sight of the previous day’s patrol, and when someone took a single pot shot at them from a distance, the men had gone on a murderous rampage through the nearby neighborhood, indiscriminately shooting any man or boy who looked like he might be of fighting age and treating many women roughly as well, even shooting a few of them. Jorah had wanted to join in as a murderous rage burned within him. These people knew who’d done it even if they hadn’t done it themselves. He’d wanted to avenge his best friend’s death, he’d wanted to make these people pay for what they’d done. But he’d remembered that Florent thought he was an honorable man and stopped himself, and after a few minutes, he’d reined in his own platoon and ordered them to form a defensive perimeter. Some started to argue but his men were well aware that Florent was his best mate, and perhaps for that reason, they’d obeyed. But he’d said nothing to the men or officers of the other platoons as he’d watched them carry out their slaughter. _

_ \--- _

_ After eighteen months and four days, Jorah and and his regiment had flown home. The original members who had been with the regiment a year and a half before had suffered over a seventy percent casualty rate. Some, like Jorah, had only minor wounds and were almost immediately returned to duty, but too many were permanently maimed or dead. When they landed in Highgarden, they were loaded into trucks and driven back to their base and instructed to shave, polish their boots and cut their hair. Those with filthy or tattered uniforms, which was most of them, were given new uniforms as well, and then they’d marched smartly onto a parade field as reporters looked on, and their colonel gave them a speech saying they had done well, they had done their duty to their king and the realm, they had won glory for the regiment, and dismissed them on a 24 hours pass, and life had been meant to return to normal. _

_ When Jorah dismissed his own platoon, he’d barely been able to hold back tears when many of them approached him individually, saluted him, and thanked him saying they wouldn’t have been alive if not for his leadership. He’d felt entirely unworthy of the praise, and he’d later sought out his platoon sergeant and gave him a wad of cash, asking him to buy each man a round at whatever bar the enlisted men went to that night. _

_ Then he’d made the long distance phone call to Bear Island and spoken very briefly to Aunt Maege, telling her he was back in Westeros and expected to get a long enough leave to come home in a few weeks. That night, he’d gone to the pub frequented by the junior officers and drank far too much and nearly left with a pretty girl but stopped himself, reminding himself even in his drunkness that he’d be seeing his wife soon. _

_ Over the next few weeks before he was given leave to return to Bear Island, Jorah had vacillated between a feeling of such sorrow that all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and cry and a feeling of such rage that he wanted to pummel nearly every person he met who had not been to Astapor, and he and his fellow officers spent nearly every evening drinking heavily as soon as their duties were done for the day. Some did more than drink, and he was tempted as he watched them smoke or snort various substances, but he’d resisted. Alcohol would have to be enough to help him to forget, if only for a few hours, though he still could not sleep for long. _

_ Once on leave, as he’d traveled to Winterfell by plane and then by train to Deepwood Motte and then by ferry to Bear Island, he’d tried to bury these feelings and memories, telling himself he was home now, he was safe now. He’d see his island again and his family. He’d hunt in the forest with Dacey and Alysane and laugh with them, and perhaps his father would respect him as a man now that he’d seen true combat and had a chest full of medals and a few battle scars. And he’d love his wife the way she deserved, she who had been so kind and caring in her letters and packages. He would treat her gently and tenderly and make up for his infidelity both in the Reach and Astapor, though she knew nothing of it, and perhaps the Gods would bless them with a child. Jorah had known that he would love that child with all his heart, and he’d told himself that he would seek a transfer to a Northern unit to be closer to home if he became a father. He’d told himself that only a weak man would not be able to get over the memories of a little combat, and Jorah Mormont was certainly not a weak man. _


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 15 - Jorah - November 1300**

Jorah exited his room only to be met by exasperated sighs from Daenerys, Irri, and Doreah, who sat sipping wine and waiting on the couch. “Jorah, you can’t go dressed like that. I need you to blend in!” Daenerys exclaimed.

Jorah looked down at his suit and responded in dismay, “But what’s wrong with this?” 

“It isn’t that type of party, Jorah,” Daenerys said patiently. She approached him and took off his tie and undid his top two buttons before untucking his shirt, and he felt his breath quicken despite himself. “Take off your jacket,” she said, and he obeyed though he wanted to say that perhaps Daenerys should put  _ on _ a jacket to cover herself a bit more. He had thoroughly enjoyed a quick glance at her cleavage himself before forcing his eyes to her face, but he didn’t like the thought of other men seeing her in such revealing attire. 

“Do you have any other shirts, Ser Jorah?” Missi asked helpfully.

“You’ve seen all of my shirts. There’s the ones I’ve worn when riding and the rest are for the gym,” he replied.

“It’s a shame he’s not the same size as Grey,” said Doreah, inspecting him closely, and he felt himself redden under the close attention of the young women, all of whom were dressed similarly to Daenerys. “I think he should keep his shirt tucked in, Princess. It accentuates his...” she added coyly as her eyes drifted to his backside, and Irri giggled.

“Very well, tuck your shirt back in, Jorah,” Daenerys ordered.

He obeyed even as he protested, “I’m going to stand out anyhow given my age and my gun. And we shouldn’t even be doing this. I’ve told you this is a bad idea, Khaleesi. It isn’t safe.”

“Jorah, you are so paranoid. Have you lost your sense of adventure? It will be fun. Besides, Quentyn will be there, so my father won’t even get mad if he finds out. I suppose your outfit now will have to do, but must you wear your gun and radio? Have you truly never been to a college party before that you thought a suit was appropriate? I’ve never met a man with so few clothes,” Daenerys finished with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

“I need my gun and radio to protect you, Princess. And I’ve told you, I went to a military school. We did not have parties,” Jorah responded. In truth, he and a few classmates had gone to a university party in Saltpans one weekend during their second class year. He’d been dressed inappropriately for that party as well given that his uniform was all he knew of fashion, and while the young men at the party seemed to not appreciate their intrusion, the girls were friendly despite Jorah’s generally bumbling nature. He’d even met a girl whom he’d briefly fallen in love with though he’d never worked up the courage to make his feelings known, and he’d enjoyed the abundance of free beer and liquor. Based on his memories of that party, he did not relish the challenges to his job tonight.

“Fine, I guess this will have to do then,” Daenerys said regally. “Let’s go. I don’t want to leave Robb waiting.” And there was the true reason that she wanted to attend the party. Robb was no longer a student, but he had told her that he and Theon would be attending, and ever since, she’d been determined to go.

“I can’t leave like this, Khaleesi, I’ll be seen out of uniform,” he said, refixing his tie and putting his jacket back on. “I’ll take it off once we get there. And perhaps you ladies should bring a jacket. It’s chilly out.”  _ And none of you are leaving anything to the imagination _ , he didn’t add out loud. 

He was dismayed when only Missi agreed to his suggestion, and Jorah followed the girls out of the apartments, allowing Daenerys to speak the lies to Ser Boros. He had no doubt that this night was going to backfire in his face, if not Daenerys’, but she’d been so persistent and so excited that he’d reluctantly gone along with her plan. Of course, he was greatly influenced by the fact that she played her trump card and  _ ordered _ him to go along with it, but a small part of him also wanted her to be allowed to have some semblance of a normal life, at least normal by noble standards though he oddly felt resentful of Robb’s anticipated presence. 

He drove the girls though it broke protocol, as Daenerys did not want to bring a driver in on the conspiracy, and he parked as close to the house as he could get. He could already hear the bass of the music and saw the dark outlines of people mingling in the front yard as he removed his tie and jacket again. This was going to be a disaster. “Princess,” he began, “I really should check out the house first, and you must promise to stay where I can see you. And only a few hours.”

“Jorah, the house belongs to the Tyrells, I’m sure it’s perfectly safe. And yes, we’ve been over this, I will not hide from you, and we will not stay too late. Can we go in now?”

He reluctantly nodded and followed the girls into the house, his eyes darting every which way. The house was packed and loud, and he had no clue how he was going to keep an eye on all four girls. His duty was to Daenerys, but he was just as worried about the others in this situation. He knew all too well that young Lords and alcohol could be a dangerous combination, particularly for common girls whom would not be shown the same respect as the future Queen. 

Margaery Tyrell met Daenerys with a hug, thanking her for coming, and led her through the crowd to the bar. Her brother, Loras, manned the bar and poured Daenerys a drink out of a cooler. Jorah shouldered his way through the crowd until he was beside her, and before she could take a sip, he touched her arm. “What’s in the drink, my Lord?” he asked Loras, trying to sound polite but failing. 

Before Loras could reply, Margaery smiled sweetly, seductively even and spoke to Daenerys. “Who’s this dangerous looking man? I recall seeing him at the ball, but I never learned his name. You have nothing to worry about Princess, it’s just a party drink, though the recipe is a secret.”

“This is Ser Jorah, my PSO,” said Daenerys.

“What’s in the drink?” he growled at Loras.

“It’s just vodka and punch. Do you want a drink?” the boy answered.

Jorah leaned down and spoke into Daenerys’ ear. “Princess, please be careful. Pace yourself. It might be better to have a drink you’ve had before so that you know how it’ll affect you.”

“I’m not a child, Jorah,” she replied somewhat haughtily, and Margaery laughed.

The next several hours were no better. He tried to stand in the background while keeping Daenerys in sight, and he made several attempts to slow her drinking or at least to give her some water to no avail, all while trying to watch the other girls as well. Some of the guests gave him odd looks, and Loras asked him if he wanted a drink so many times that finally he grabbed an empty plastic cup and held it in his hand so that he’d stop asking. At one point, a clearly intoxicated girl nearly threw herself into his arms and tried to grind against his groin, and as he extracted himself from her, he briefly lost sight of Daenerys before finding her with a new drink in her hand surrounded by several young men including Quentyn Martell after several minutes of frantic searching. He did a quick scan of the room for the other girls and saw Doreah making out with a young man on the couch, Missandei sitting uncomfortably next to her. Irri was nowhere in sight, but if he spent too much time looking for her, he was certain he’d lose Daenerys again. His first attempt to convince Daenerys it was time to leave had already been a failure, as Robb had yet to arrive as he’d promised, Daenerys, who he’d never seen drink more than a glass of wine or two in one sitting, was drinking far too much of the punch, and he was becoming increasingly on edge. Yet, when several more girls approached him, forcing him to rebuff them, he wondered if he was intentionally being distracted, mocked or both, though he couldn’t help but notice that Daenerys was dressed almost modestly compared to them, and he found himself becoming aroused despite his best efforts to ignore it all.

“They look like a bunch of whores,” a gruff voice said at his side, and Jorah whirled to see a man even larger than he with a badly burned face. “You’re the Princess’s babysitter, aren’t you?”

“I’m the Princess’s PSO,” Jorah answered testily. “Ser Jorah Mormont. And you are?” He thought he knew, as he’d made a point to learn the major players and their allies in King’s Landing for Daenerys’ sake, but as he’d never actually met the man called the Hound, he didn’t want to make assumptions.

“Clegane, Sandor, not to be confused with my brother Gregor. I’m the handsome one. No Ser for me. I’m Joffrey Baratheon’s babysitter. It looks like we’re the only two babysitters here. But Mormont, you say? What are you drinking?”

“Nothing,” replied Jorah, taking a glance to Daenerys who was being handed yet another drink by Quentyn Martell “The cup is empty.”

“Really? I’d heard you were a drunk. Not that I blame you for it. We all came back with our problems, didn’t we? I came back with the pretty face, that cunt Beric came back with a new religion and a missing eye, Stannis’ gopher, Ser Onion whatever the fuck his name is, came back short a few fingers though how the fuck he did that being in the navy at the time I don’t know, and my brother came back a psychopath. Of course, he was a psychopath before he went. I’m talking about Astapor of course.”

“I figured as much,” Jorah replied, not wanting to discuss Astapor, not wanting to continue any sort of conversation with this man, and not wanting to be distracted from the job at hand. “Excuse me,” he said as he saw Missandei pinned in a corner by a young man and quickly pushed himself away from the wall, shoving through the crowd to her side. He swallowed down the urge to grab the young man by the scruff of his neck, as surely he was some high born boy with a well connected family and instead tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t miss Missandei’s look of relief out of the corner of his eye.

“Wait your turn,” snapped the boy, who Jorah realized too late was in fact Clegane’s charge. “You can have her once I’m done.” He turned and looked at Jorah and laughed. “Or perhaps not, old man. Who are you?”

Jorah feared no man, but he also wasn’t stupid, so he glanced over his shoulder to see Clegane still against the wall seemingly unaware of the exchange before continuing. “I don’t think the young lady is interested in having a turn with you, my Lord. So perhaps you could leave her alone,” he said in the humble voice which he’d been forced to use far too often over the past decade.

Joffrey gave him an incredulous look. “Why on earth would a common girl be here if not for the entertainment of the young Lords present? I’ll do what I like with her! And you didn’t answer my question. Do you know who I am? My father is the Lord Hand!”

_ Fuck it _ , thought Jorah. Perhaps he’d have to fight Clegane after all. “I don’t care who you are, if you don’t remove your hands from this young woman right now, I’ll break your fucking arm,” he growled. 

The boy sputtered at him for a moment and then made a beeline for Clegane. “Are you alright, my Lady?” he asked Missandei. When she nodded, he continued, “It’s time to go. Find Irri and Doreah and tell them to get to the car immediately. I’ll go get the Princess.”

He waded through the packed room to Daenerys’ side and took the cup from her hand. “Princess, it is time to go. We’ve been here far longer than agreed upon already.”

Quentyn Martell, who had been plying her with drinks all night, argued, “Who do you think you are, Mormont? You can’t tell her what to do. She’s having a grand time!”

Jorah ignored Quentyn and gently guided Daenerys away as she protested that Robb hadn’t arrived yet. “You’ll have to see him later, Khaleesi. Missandei isn’t feeling well and would like to go home, and I think you’ve had quite enough as well.”

“Can’t you take Missi home and then come back for me? I want to stay, Jorah. I command that you let me stay,” she slurred as she stumbled into him, and he cursed himself for not putting an end to this earlier. 

“Daenerys, please, will you do it for me at least? I was whipped for the crime of insulting your brother. What do you think your father and Ser Barristan will have done to me if they find out about this? If I don’t get you home soon, we’ll surely be caught,” he pleaded. 

“Oh,” she said in surprise as if the thought had never dawned on her. “Oh, I don’t want that, Jorah. We can go.” And she began to stumble towards the door, only staying upright due to Jorah’s assistance. As soon as they got out the door, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her the rest of the way to the car. To his relief, the other girls were already there, though Irri and Doreah seemed nearly as drunk as Daenerys.

Once he had all the girls in the car and buckled in, he lay his jacket over top of Daenerys and Irri who was leaning against her, as both girls shivered from cold. “Missi, I need your help,” he said, taking out his cell phone and handing it to her. “Call Grey and tell him to meet us at the entrance to the apartments in ten minutes. We’ll need him to distract the guards while we get the others inside.”

It was another adventure once they got back. He was thankful that Missandei was relatively sober. Grey was their scout and headed off Ser Arys as well as the Unsullied who guarded the apartments, Missi helped the stumbling and giggling Irri and Doreah and at the last second distracted Ser Boros, and after refixing his tie, Jorah carried Daenerys wrapped in his jacket. Miraculously, he did not think they were seen. He sat Daenerys on the couch once they were inside and got her a glass of water, insisting she drink it all, and he told the other two girls to go to bed after making them drink water of their own. The were too drunk to be of any use, so he’d just need to wait for Missandei to return from wherever she’d taken Ser Boros to get Daenerys off to bed.

“Jorah,” Daenerys slurred from the couch, “I’m tired. Take me to bed.” He told her to be patient, that Missi would be back soon, but she was insistent, so at last, he carried her into her bedroom and gently laid her on her bed.

“I’ll send Missi in as soon as she gets back to help you change, Princess,” he said softly, but as he started to stand, she wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing herself against him. 

“Why did Robb not come?” she mumbled. Before he could think of an answer, she continued, “Stay, Jorah. You would never let me down like that. You’re my true knight.” And she leaned up and kissed him, only missing his mouth because he turned his head at the last second, and then she recited a few lines of a love poem about a knight and a princess that he knew was in one of the books that he’d given her. “Kiss me, Jorah.”

Gods, he wanted to. He wanted to kiss her lips and her neck and every inch of her beautiful body and hold her and show her exactly what she meant to him. He tried to clear his mind, but he could barely think as blood pounded in his ears and to his groin. He wanted her possibly more than he’d ever wanted anyone or anything in his life, and surely she wanted him. She was practically throwing herself at him as she clung to him in her short, strapless dress and nuzzled against the scruff of his neck, her legs spread on the bed. But she was drunk, and she would regret it, just as every woman he’d ever bedded had surely regretted it, and he had no right to even imagine the thoughts that were flooding his brain and making him achingly hard. “Kiss me,” she mumbled again.

He kissed her forehead ever so lightly, letting his lips linger for just a moment, before saying softly, “You’re very drunk, Daenerys. If you still feel this way in the morning, tell me, and I’ll kiss you properly.” As she nodded and promised that she would, he wondered what madness had overcome him that he’d said something so insane, so presumptuous, so bold. He could never have her. He’d been a Lord in his own right once and dared to desire the much younger daughter of a much higher Lord, and that had ended disastrously. Yet, now that he was even older and had been brought much lower, his heart was set on someone even more out of reach. But as he gently extracted himself from her grip and laid her back on the bed, he reminded himself that while it was forbidden now, someday Daenerys would be the Queen who could do what she wanted, and fool that he was, he couldn’t help but feel a faint glimmer of hope. “I’ll fetch Missandei for you now,” he said. “Sweet dreams, Princess.” She was asleep before he even reached the door.

The next morning, Daenerys slept in late and emerged from her room looking miserable. Jorah handed her a plate of toast, a sports drink, and a painkiller. As she slowly ate, he asked, “Do you remember the end of last night, Khaleesi?” He’d dreamt feverishly of her all night, and his hope had not died. 

“I remember that you got me home, Ser, and that you and Missi got me to bed. Thank you for taking care of me. I’m sorry if I said anything silly.”

“You said nothing silly, Princess. Do you remember what you said to me before you went to sleep?” he asked.

“I don’t. What did I say, Ser Jorah? I hope I wasn’t rude.”

“Oh, it was nothing rude. You quoted poetry to me and did a rather good job for one so drunk. You don’t remember?” She shook her. “Eat up and keep drinking water. You’ll feel better soon,” he said gruffly, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest as he left her to slowly eat the rest of her toast.  _ You old fool, _ he thought,  _ will you never learn? _

\---

The next Sunday, Jorah walked back to the Red Keep at the end of his weekend off thinking of Daenerys and how recent events might affect her. Shockingly, he’d not been summoned to Ser Barristan’s office during the last week, and the Lord Commander seemed completely unaware of the past weekend’s escapade. The weekend off was much needed though as he thought some physical separation from Daenerys might do something to lessen his yearning, and he’d spent the weekend in pubs in poorer neighborhoods include Flea Bottom not drinking much but simply listening for news, and he’d spent the last night in a seedy hotel room listening to his jerry-rigged radio. There were reports of a miners’ strike which had been brutally crushed by the army in the Vale, rioting in Storm’s End, protests by students at the Citadel, and general unrest among the people in Flea Bottom, and there was more truth on certain airwaves and in certain pubs than in the papers. 

He was pondering these things and worrying for his Princess when he was suddenly knocked to the ground from behind, and as he whirled to try to fight off his assailants, he felt several men push his face into the pavement, handcuff him, and then pull a sack over his head. He was dragged a short distance and then tossed into some sort of vehicle which quickly began to move. He felt a foot press down on his back, and then the sack was removed from his face.

“Ser Jorah,” said the voice of Lord Varys. “The Princess went to a party last weekend, and you failed to tell me about it. Why?”

Jorah took several deep breaths, or at least as deep of breaths as one could take with a boot pressed down on one’s back, trying to calm his panic before replying, “It was a last minute decision by the Princess, my Lord. I didn’t have time to notify you beforehand.” 

“Yet, you failed to notify me afterward as well. And why do you never tell me about the route that you will be taking on the drive to the university?”

“It isn’t my decision. The Lord Commander gives me the route just a few minutes before we leave,” he lied.

“You have become extraordinarily unhelpful, Ser Jorah.”

“You said you wanted them watched, not harmed. I gave you Visery, I want no more blood on my hands,” he snapped, unable to keep his cool any longer. 

“And why on earth do you think that I had anything to do with the Prince’s tragic death? It was an accident, Ser Jorah, the boy was driving recklessly. Now do you still want your pardon or not?”

“I want out,” he said. He wanted to say goodbye to Daenerys, to tell her the truth before he met Ice, though he did not imagine that would be allowed. Perhaps Stark would at least let him write a letter. Perhaps Robb would deliver it for him. Or perhaps he would allow him to speak to his family one last time, and he could relay a message through Dacey. 

As if reading his mind, Jorah’s head was pulled up roughly by his hair so that he could see Varys’ face as he responded, “I have invested quite a bit of time and effort in you, Ser Jorah. I think a clean beheading would be too kind for you. Sending you to Meereen would be much more fitting. They’ve been whining about what our soldiers did to those village Wise Masters for years now, and we’ve always maintained it was just a few rogue platoons. It would be such a gesture of goodwill if we could send them one of the lieutenants of those platoons. I hear crucifixion is a rather horrible way to die, and someone as strong as you would likely last for days, but I think it’s an appropriate punishment for such an atrocity. Driver, head for the airport please.” He must have seen the fear in Jorah’s eyes because he smiled as he said, “Oh, have you changed your mind? Well, since I have invested so much in you, I suppose I will give you one last chance. I swear to you, I don’t want the Princess harmed. I personally think she will make an excellent Queen, but I still need reliable and timely information. Now tell me something you’ve been keeping from me. We’ll be to the airport soon, and once you’re on the plane, it’s too late to turn back.”

Jorah felt panic rising up within him as it hadn’t in years. He couldn’t go back there, not by himself, with none of his men. He could take a clean beheading in the North, but the Harpies, they’d torture him, they’d crucify him, they’d do worse to him than they’d done to Florent and there would be no men left to find his body and send it home to a family that might not even accept it anymore. And Daenerys, she wouldn’t even know what happened to him. She’d think he’d abandoned her, and who would protect her once he was gone? “I- I don’t know, my Lord, the party was very out of the ordinary. She truly does not have an eventful life and spends most of her time inside the Keep when she’s not at school. I’ve always told you when we go riding. She goes to the theater on a date from time to time, but she does little else outside the walls. What else would you have me say, my Lord?” 

“Tell me this, whom does the Princess prefer, the Martell or Stark boy?”

“I can’t say for certain, my Lord, she is rather private about her love life and hasn’t shared those thoughts with me. She spends near equal public time with them. I could only guess.”

Varys motioned to the men behind him, and he was rolled over and allowed to sit up in a more comfortable position, thought they still kept a tight grip on his arm. “Well, you are in the vicinity during most of her dates both public and private. If you were to guess, who would you think?”

_ Forgive me, Daenerys, _ he thought before answering, “I suppose perhaps the Stark boy. She- she smiles more genuinely with him, my Lord.”

Varys smiled, “Very good, Ser Jorah. See, that wasn’t so hard. And is she still a maiden?” 

Jorah felt himself redden in anger at the question, but he answered in a defeated voice nonetheless, “As far as I know, yes.” 

Varys smiled again and then proceeded to grill him on nearly every detail of Daenerys’ life, Jorah attempting to give vague answers, but not daring to outright lie again unless he was entirely certain that there was no one else but Daenerys who could contradict his story. 

After a very long time, Jorah was unhandcuffed and the van pulled over, and one of the men opened the door. “You are free to go, Ser Jorah,” said Varys with a smile. “But if you let me down again, you will find yourself headed straight for Meereen. No more chances. Now, I know you haven’t been paid in some time due to your various infractions, so here is something to hold you over.” He handed Jorah a wad of money, and then Jorah was shoved from the van.

Once he was alone, Jorah found himself shaking nearly uncontrollably, and he threw up in a nearby gutter before calming himself enough to walk the rest of the way back to the Keep. On the way, he tossed most of the money to a beggar who might have been his age. The man had one leg and wore a faded, desert camouflage military jacket, and he reminded him slightly of one of his sergeants who had left the army a drug addict, though the sergeant had not lost a leg in the war. But as Jorah did in fact have need of money, having not been paid since August, he kept some of the bills for himself, and he hated himself for it.


	28. Again - June 1285 AC

** _Again - June 1285 AC_ **

_ Jorah had let out a groan as the insistent ringing of his phone woke him from his slumber. He had a splitting headache, his throat felt as dry as the terrain that surrounded Astapor, and he cursed whichever private or corporal was calling him from the guard room as he stumbled out of bed, for no one else would call at such an early hour on a Sunday morning. _

_ The previous night was his own fault and he knew it though he blamed it on his father. If his father hadn’t shown up unexpectedly two days prior, he never would have felt as shameful and inadequate as he had and thus made the idiotic decision to not leave the past in the past, which had led to more idiotic and shameful decisions, cumulating in Jorah stumbling back to his quarters in the portion of the barracks typically occupied by single officers at 5am. _

_ Jorah had returned to his cavalry regiment in Highgarden nearly a year before after the threat of civil war had passed. His family, particularly his father, had not been happy as they’d hoped he’d stay with the Wolfswood Regiment for good, but he’d found the duty there boring, and he missed the men whom he’d fought with in Astapor. “How are you to be Lord of Bear Island if you’re never home?” his father had growled at him over the phone when he told him of his decision. “If you don’t like the Wolfswood, come to the Wall at least. They’ll all think you a traitor in the South now anyhow.” Perhaps his father had been right though he’d never admit it, for once he’d returned after two years back in the North, he’d been assigned to a new company, and he’d heard whispers from men who had joined the regiment after Astapor or had simply not known him well when they were there that he’d turned his back on his regiment and his King in favor of home, that he would have taken up arms against his comrades had it come to civil war. And while he had no proof, he was certain that he’d been passed up for promotion on at least two occasions due to these suspicions as men who were younger than he with less distinguished records were made captains and he was still a lieutenant. _

_ And he was dreadfully lonely. During his last time at home, the longest stretch since before he’d left for the Academy nearly a decade before, he’d become used to the company of his wife and his cousins, so he felt their absence all the more keenly now, and on top of that, he’d yet to become close friends with any of the officers in his new company. He’d suggested that Sarra come stay with him for a time or even just visit, but she was fearful to travel on her own, and he could find no one available to escort her. He didn’t think she really wanted to come anyway, so he had not pressed the issue. Still, he wrote home at least once a week and made the long distance phone call nearly every Sunday, but it hadn’t been enough. He’d thought he’d been mostly recovered from whatever was wrong with him after Astapor, but now he could feel himself slipping back to how he’d been before, and though he fought desperately against it, fought desperately to forget it all, he hadn’t always succeeded. The loneliness combined with his nightmares and moments of rage and panic, which had increased since returning the Reach, led him to dark moods, and those dark moods led him to drink, and drink led him to do shameful things. And on a few occasions, he’d again sought comfort and pleasure in the arms of a woman who was not his wife. He’d been relieved when he got a brief leave five months prior. It did him good to go home and to see his family. It reminded him what a good wife he had and that he must try harder for her, and he’d been ecstatic when a few months later she’d told him she was pregnant during one of their Sunday phone calls. He’d sworn to himself that he’d be better both for her and for his child, and he’d kept to that promise for a time. Then his father had showed up. _

_ He’d been down at the target range observing several new privates who’d just joined his platoon when a sergeant jogged up. “There’s a Lord Commander at the captain’s office looking for you, m’Lord.” _

_ “From which unit?” Jorah had asked in confusion as he hurriedly began to walk towards the barracks, trying to straighten his uniform in the process. A Lord Commander seeking out a lieutenant was unusual, to say the least, and it surely meant nothing good. _

_ “I believe he’s from the Watch, m’Lord, but I’m not certain because I’ve never seen their uniforms in person.” _

_ “Fuck,” Jorah had let slip, startling the sergeant. He racked his mind for what he might have done wrong this time but could think of nothing. Surely his father didn’t know about his continued infidelity. He’d been discreet, it had been over half a year ago, and he’d been careful to make sure that neither of the girls he’d been with could possibly have gotten pregnant. But he could think of no other reason why his father would turn up out of the blue in Highgarden, so he braced himself for the worst as he entered the company offices to see his colonel, a major and his captain all standing with his father, and some other men, clearly curious, watching in the background. _

_ “Father, what a surprise. What brings you here?” he’d asked. He’d stood tensely despite the formal part of the military greetings being done, expecting a backhand or punch to the face at any moment. He didn’t think his father would do such a thing in front of the others, he’d more likely do it as soon as they were in private, but Jorah had learned it was best to never let his guard down. _

_ His father had walked out of the offices motioning for Jorah to follow before he answered, “Well, I was hoping you might give me a tour as I’ve never seen your base. I’ve been in Highgarden for four days now for meetings. The Small Council is keen to try to better integrate various regiments with greater geographic diversity, I suppose they think it’ll stop the next civil war, so I’ve been in meetings with various Lord Commanders and generals trying to figure out how to do it. I think there might be some success amongst the various Southron kingdoms, but it’s a lost cause between the North and the South. Nobody from the South will come North unless they are looking for absolution for a crime at the Wall, I can’t see anyone choosing to join any of the other Northern regiments, and no true Northman would want to join one of these soft Southron units. But come on, son, show me where you’ve been staying all this time.” _

_ Jorah led the way, unsure if he was more hurt that his father had been in town for days and not told him or from the continued thinly veiled implication that he thought his only son soft. Still, Jorah was proud to show his father around, even as he insisted on comparing everything to the forts at the Wall. “I’ve never seen such cushy barracks in my life. And such fancy coffee in the mess! Ha, no wonder you like it so much here,” Jeor scoffed. _

_ “We’re in the field training a large portion of each year, Father, and you know I’m not particular about my coffee,” he’d responded tightly. _

_ “If you say so. But, Jorah, shouldn’t you be about due for a promotion? How many years have you been a first lieutenant now? I can’t think of a single officer currently in the Watch with your age and experience who’s not at least a captain.” _

_ Jorah mumbled some non-explanation, and when his father barked at him to speak up, he’d said, “I’m on the list, Father. I’ll be promoted soon. But will you stay for dinner? You could meet some of my friends.” _

_ “Your friends? Perhaps you’d like to introduce me to your mistress as well. That’s likely another reason you came back South, there’s plenty of access to women and no one to tell on you down here.” _

_ “I don’t have a mistress, Father,” he’d replied tersely, resisting the urge to add that the towns near the Wall were notorious for their whores for a reason. _

_ “Unlikely,” his father had growled. “Maybe you don’t call her that, but I’m sure you have some pretty little common girl at your beck and call while your Lady wife suffers through pregnancy back home. You’ve always been weak. But no, Jorah, I don’t have time to stay. I leave first thing in the morning and want to see some of the sights before I go.” _

_ “There isn’t a girl, Father. But I could ask the colonel for permission to go with you and show you around. I have no duties after mess or over the weekend, and I’m sure he’d let me go a bit early for this occasion.” _

_ “No, no, I’m meeting an old friend from ‘55. He’s out of the service now but was in the 2nd Reach Infantry when they came to the Wall,” his father had said, referring to the last real war between Westeros and the Free States when the King had sent dozens of Southron regiments North to help throw back the Wildling invasion. “Now that was a real war, not some little peacekeeping operation. I’ll see you later, son, perhaps when I meet my grandchild. Surely, you’ll come to your senses and transfer back North then.” And without even a handshake, his father turned and left, and Jorah had felt nearly as adrift and inadequate as he had on the day his father had sailed away to take the Old Oath to the Watch. _

_ That night, he’d been haunted by horrible dreams. He’d dreamt that it was Sarra he’d accidentally shot in Astapor, a recurring dream ever since he’d struck her, but one that hadn’t visited him in a long time. He’d dreamt of the bed slave whose baby he’d rescued in exchange for her services, only in this dream, he’d forced himself on her as his father watched with fury in his eyes. He’d dreamt of the man he’d beaten to death with a brick, but in this dream, the man wouldn’t die no matter how hard Jorah hit him even though his face and head were mush and instead reached up to strangle him, and his father stood by watching and saying “You’ve always been weak” as he suffocated to death. At one point, he thought he was awake, and he saw Florent’s mutilated body hanging by barbed wire in his barrack’s room and his father stood by his bed telling him it was all just a little peacekeeping operation, and he woke with a shout, drenched in sweat and shaking so hard he could barely stand when he tried to get up. _

_ The next morning, for reasons he could not explain for he’d tried to keep Astapor in the past, he’d decided to borrow a motorcycle from another lieutenant and make the hour long drive to Brightwater Keep, the seat of House Florent. He’d been once with his friend years ago between his first and second deployment, but he’d very intentionally avoided it since. He’d thought to seek out Florent’s mother or perhaps the girl he’d loved and intended to marry, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, so instead after a long search, he sat at his friend’s grave sipping from the flask he’d given him, and then, slightly drunk, he’d driven back to Highgarden. Later that evening, he’d gone to a tavern frequented by the officers in his regiment. He didn’t want company, but he didn’t want to be alone so he sat at a corner table drinking and brooding as he watched others make merry around him. _

_ He was pulled from his thoughts by a girl’s voice at his elbow. “I’ve brought you another, m’Lord. Have you been unwell? I haven’t seen you in a long while.” It was a barmaid he’d been with a few times, months ago. He hadn’t been back to the tavern since his last visit home. _

_ “I’ve been busy,” he’d said gruffly, before thanking her more kindly for the ale. _

_ Later, when she brought him another drink, she’d asked softly, “You look like you need some company, m’Lord. What troubles you?” _

_ He couldn’t help it as his eyes lingered on her chest a moment, her low cut top providing a tempting view, before he looked up. “I’ve stayed away because I’m trying to behave myself. My wife is pregnant.” He tried to remember the girl’s name, but he couldn’t. _

_ “Congratulations, m’Lord,” the girl had said brightly. “Then why do you look so sad?” _

_ He’d spoken of Florent to no one, but he found himself suddenly telling this girl about him. He didn’t mention how he’d died, but he told her of their friendship, and she listened sympathetically. He hadn’t objected when she sat on the bench next to him nor when she moved closer and placed a hand on his thigh. “I’m sorry for your loss, m’Lord,” she whispered against his ear, and he could barely think. “He sounded like a wonderful friend. If you decide you want company later, I get off at closing time. Or I have a break in 30 minutes, I can meet you in the back alley again.” For that was where he’d had her last time though he’d done it as gently as he could. _

_ He shook his head and she left him, but he wanted her and it seemed she wanted him too. He was hurting and a woman’s comfort would help, he thought, and as he sat sipping his drink, he’d tried to justify it to himself. All of the other married officers that he knew did such things from time to time, most far more frequently than he, even those whose wives lived with them in Hightower. Jorah was certain that he’d do no such thing if Sarra had come to live with him as he’d suggested, not anymore anyhow. And it was just as common amongst the Lords he knew. Lord Bolton was a married man, and his acknowledged bastard was said to have been conceived in rape. The new Lord Hand, Robert Baratheon was rumored to have a half dozen bastards spread across Westeros, and he was wed to a beautiful Lannister. Even the honorable Ned Stark had a bastard son who lived with him at Winterfell. How great the shame must have been to Lady Catelyn every time she even looked upon the boy! Before, he’d been reckless and wrong to humiliate his wife in such a fashion on Bear Island, but she would never know about this. And it had been months since he’d seen her and would be months until he’d see her again, and she’d be in no condition for such things after giving birth. He was still a man after all, and he had certain needs. Nevermind that his father had taken a vow to never know such intimacy again. Jorah was not his father, as Jeor Mormont constantly reminded him. _

_ So as closing time neared and he paid his bill, leaving a large tip, he’d grasped the barmaids hand gently when she took it from him. “I’ll wait until you’re off if you’ll still have me,” he’d said, and he was answered with a glowing smile. He did not know what she saw in him, though it had seemed that she’d enjoyed their previous encounters. He knew deep down that she likely only wanted him because he was a nobleman, a Lord, but it made him feel good to be desired as a man nonetheless. _

_ He’d walked with her for several blocks to the small, decrepit room she rented in a boarding house, and for a little while, he did forget his sorrow and hurt and everything else except for the feeling of their bodies moving together, joining together in her bed. When he had finished, he held her for a while before getting up. _

_ “When will I see you again, m’Lord?” the girl asked from the bed as she watched him dress. _

_ “I don’t know. I might move back to the North when my child is born.” He could see the disappointment on her face. “Thank you for your company this evening. It was a great comfort. I- I wish you good fortune.” Then he’d walked out, guilt already eating away at him. Thus, he stumbled back to the barracks, arriving at 5am, and it was with a terrible hangover and a great deal of regret that he stumbled from his bed several hours later to answer the phone. _

_ “This had better be important!” he’d barked into the phone, convinced it was the guard room. _

_ “It’s Dacey, Jorah.” _

_ “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought- what’s the matter?” Something must be the matter. She knew he would be calling that afternoon as he always did though given the shame he felt at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d actually have had the nerve to make the call today. _

_ “I’m sorry, Jorah. Sarra lost the baby during the night. Can you get emergency leave to come home? She lost a lot of blood and is very weak.” _

_ Jorah had felt his knees nearly give out and he almost dropped the phone as he leaned against the wall. “Will she live?” he asked, fearful of the answer. _

_ “The maester is optimistic but either way, she’s very upset about the baby. It would do her some good to see you. She loves you for some reason, brother.” _

_ “Of course, I’ll speak to the colonel and be home as soon as I can. Tell her for me, will you?” _

_ So he’d rushed to make himself presentable despite his splitting headache, spoke to the colonel, and got on the first available flight to Winterfell. As he’d missed the last train to Deepwood Motte for the day, he’d gone to his Liege Lord to beg use of a car and had driven in the early hours of the morning to make the first ferry to Bear Island with nothing but his dark thoughts to keep him company, thoughts of what he’d been doing at the very hour when his wife bled their babe away, at the very hour when she may have begun to bleed her own life away. “Please let her live, please let me make it in time,” he’d prayed over and over as he sat tensely in his seat on the plane, and as he drove west as fast as he dared, and as he paced the deck of the ferry. When he’d at last arrived, eyes bloodshot and with a day’s worth of stubble, Sarra was asleep, and as he peaked in on her, he’d nearly wept, though the maester told him that she would most likely recover. _

_ He’d sat by her bedside for a while, but not wanting to wake her and feeling his mind slipping to darker and darker places, he’d walked up through the forest to a meadow high up by a cliff where wildflowers which Sarra loved grew, and he picked her a bouquet, but as he walked back down towards the Keep, he’d lost control, dropping the bouquet and flailing at an ancient gnarled oak, punching it until his knuckles bled and he’d surely broken several bones in his right hand. He’d picked up the flowers carefully even as blood dripped from his knuckles and found his steps taking him to the cave where he’d taken refuge so often as a boy, and when he got there, he’d sworn to the Gods and to his mother that he would be a better husband this time if he got another chance. _

_ When he’d returned to the Keep, he was roughly bandaging his own hands when Maege came to tell him that Sarra was awake and doing a bit better. She gave him an accusatory look as she observed his hands but said nothing, and he quickly went up the stairs to the Lord’s chambers, entering with the flowers in hand. _

_ When Sarra had seen him, she immediately began to cry. “I’m sorry I lost your child, my Lord, but I am so glad that you came home,” she sobbed. He rushed to her immediately, but the sight of the bandages startled her. “Oh Jorah, what happened to your hands? Has the maester seen to them?” _

_ He’d set the flowers on the bedside table and taken her hands, ignoring the pain of his own, but he could not meet her eyes as he whispered, “You’ve done nothing wrong. It is I who must beg your forgiveness, my Lady.” When he finally looked up again, he saw her confusion, but then she must have seen the guilt in his eyes for after a few moments understanding dawned on her face, and she pulled her hands from his. _

_ He’d cleared his throat before continuing hoarsely, “I only got a few days of leave for right now, but as soon as I return to Highgarden, I’m going to put in a request for a permanent transfer back to the Wolfswood. I’ll be home nearly every night again, and that’s far more important than anything else. Though if you’d prefer see less of me, I understand, and I’ll stay in the Reach. This is surely no consolation, but it wasn’t like last time, I swear it was just a few times. But I have no excuse for my behavior, and it will not happen again.” He’d paused but she’d not moved or given a response of any kind, so he continued, “Tell me what you’d have me do now, my Lady. If you’d like to be left alone, or if you’d rest better if I stayed in the guest chambers- if you’d prefer me stay out of your sight, I’ll do it, and if you’d like me to stay or to do anything at all for you right now, I’ll do that as well.” _

_ “I’d like to be left alone for now,” she’d said dully, not looking at him. “You should see to your hands. But you are the Lord of Bear Island, you should sleep in the Lord’s chamber when you are home.” So Jorah had stood and bowed stiffly, and left her alone. _

_ He’d spent most of the rest of the day sitting outside after the maester fixed a cast around his right hand, and Dacey must have figured it out at some point or Sarra told her, for she’d stormed up to him and snarled, “You weak, selfish coward! How could you? And you stupid fool, you couldn’t have waited until she’d regained a little bit of her strength to make your confession? You couldn’t have let her grieve for her lost child for a respectable time before reminding her that her husband is an unfaithful git? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to her? Your father was right, you are a weak, pathetic disgrace.” As her rant continued, he’d stared at his hands and made no attempt to defend himself. _

_ That night, he’d gone into his bed chambers cautiously. “If you’ve changed your mind about the sleeping arrangement, just tell me, my Lady,” he said softly. She shook her head so he’d changed and gotten into bed beside her, though he did not touch her. “I know how empty my words must sound, but I am so sorry, Sarra. I never meant-” he began, but she cut him off. _

_ “The night before we married, my mother explained to me what my duties would be to you as your Lady wife. She said that I must make the home welcoming, warm, and peaceful for you. She said that I must obey you, for you would be my Lord as well as my husband. She said that I must bear your children and that I must do as you wished in our bed. And she explained that you were a man and what that meant. She told me that especially because you were a soldier and would spend months far from home, it would be natural for you to have your needs met elsewhere, but she said that even when you were home, while I must try my best to please you, I should not object or complain if you discreetly sought out other women.” She’d begun to sob but she’d continued, “I never expected you to hit me, Jorah, nor to shame me as you did a few years ago, but I know that you were hurting, and you have been kind and gentle and done nothing to openly shame me since. If you hadn’t told on yourself, I never would have even known this time. I shall not hold what you’ve done far from home against you, and of course I’d prefer you here, but if the cavalry is better for your career or if you prefer it there, I’ll not ask you to seek a transfer. My mother told me that my father does it. I suspect my brothers do it. Even Lord Stark has a bastard. I know that I lack the passion of some women and surely do not please you as some others have though I swear I try. I confess it breaks my heart, Jorah, but I’ll not hold this against you.” _

_ When he’d heard his own oft repeated excuses from his wife’s mouth, it all sounded so ridiculous, and his father and Dacey’s condemnations echoed in his mind. “Sarra, please look at me,” he urged. “I broke my vows to you. There is no justification for that. I’ve been a terrible husband to you.” _

_ “So you wouldn’t have me forgive you?” she’d asked. _

_ “Of course I wish for your forgiveness, but not because you think it was my right to do what I did. Just because others do it doesn’t make it right. No husband should betray his wife in such a manner. It’s shameful behavior. I know you love your mother, and I have no doubt that she was trying to protect you when she told you these things, but I did it because I was a selfish bastard. I convinced myself it was a need instead of a want because I was weak, and my weakness broke your heart. When Dacey called me yesterday, of course I mourned for our child and I still do, but I feared most of all that I’d lost you as well, and I realized- I realized that I love you.” He’d never spoken those three words to her in their years of marriage, but it was the truth even if it was not the romantic, passionate love he’d once imagined he would have for a woman. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and wiped away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes before continuing, “I love you, Sarra, and I want to be strong for you. I want to atone for what I’ve done. I’ve given you no reason to believe me, but I swear to you, I want to be a faithful and worthy husband. I must do that from Bear Island, cavalry be damned, because I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it alone yet. I need your help. But I swear to you, if you’ll still have me, if you’ll still help me, I will be a better husband, I will love you better, I will be stronger, and I will not betray you again.” _

_ Sarra was silent when he’d finished, and he dared to reach out and wipe the tears from her cheeks with his less injured hand. “You love me?” she’d asked finally in a small voice. _

_ “I do. And I hope to prove it to you.” _

_ Two months later, he was granted his transfer and returned to the North for what he thought would be for good. While he and Sarra shared many tender moments when he returned, the fact was that she still hurt from his latest betrayal, and it was a long time before they were truly intimate again for Sarra did not want it, and Jorah did not push it. And while Sarra told Jorah often that she forgave him, he did not forgive himself. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had to do it again. His issues will not go away easily.


	29. Chapter 16- Tyrion - December 1300 AC

**Chapter 16- Tyrion - December 1300 AC**

Tyrion carefully checked his notes before knocking on the door to Daenerys’ apartments. He groaned inwardly when Ser Jorah Mormont, rather than one of her handmaids, answered the door. Missandei and Irri were always pleasant, and Doreah could be outright flirtatious. Mormont, on the other hand, struck Tyrion as a bad-tempered, brooding bear.

Mormont gave the slightest of bows and a gruff “my Lord” before stalking back into the apartments, leaving the door open. Tyrion followed after him as quickly as he could on his short legs. “Why good morning to you too, Ser Jorah. How have you been? I’ve been well, thank you for asking.” The large man only gave him a dark look before knocking on the door to Daenerys’ chambers and calling out Tyrion’s arrival.

Initially, Tyrion had been disappointed with his appointment as Daenerys’ advisor, and he’d been dismayed to learn that Daenerys had in fact not known about his appointment prior to their initial meeting. He’d hoped for bigger and better things, perhaps as advisor to Viserys or to stand for his father on the Small Council when Lord Tywin was in Casterly Rock. But then Viserys had died, making Daenerys next in line to the Iron Throne, and Tyrion had discovered that she possessed many desirable qualities for a leader. She was also an eager pupil and clearly valued his advice. Now he had just two main problems. The first was her relationship with Robb Stark, for Varys had said that his little birds whispered that she preferred Robb to Quentyn. A stronger alliance between the Targeryans and Martells would not have been great news for the Lannisters, though the two houses already had a strong bond due to Rhaegar and Elia, but an alliance between the Starks and the Targeryans, as unlikely as it had once been, would be disastrous in uniting the power of the North and the power of the Crown in joint hostility against the Lannisters and perhaps even against the Baratheons in the next generation. Tyrion’s father was rather keen on getting Joffrey into the mix, but Tyrion did not see how that was possible given that Joffrey was a little twat compared to Robb and even compared to Quentyn. Meanwhile, the King wanted Quentyn Martell to win over Daenerys’ heart which seemed to be an equally impossible task for Tyrion knew there was little he could do to sway the girl’s heart, though she just might listen to someone else. Which led to the second problem, the problem of Jorah Mormont. 

Tyrion did not particularly care that Mormont seemed to dislike him. He could deal with that. He was rather used to people disliking him, and he disliked Ser Jorah in turn. Besides, it all should have been irrelevant since he was Mormont’s social better by a wide margin. It was the fact that Daenerys  _ did _ like her knight so much that was problematic. For the life of him, Tyrion did not understand why Daenerys was so fond of her PSO given his brooding nature and complete lack of humor. Tyrion found him to be very much the hard, rough former soldier and mercenary Varys had described to him, certainly not the knight in shining armor type who attracted the favor of a princess in the old stories. Tyrion understood even less why she seemed to value her bodyguard’s advice so much given his low social standing, his lack of university education, and his shameful past. He felt that the disgraced knight was inappropriately familiar for his lowly position- from rather close observation, Tyrion suspected that Mormont may have even desired the Princess, though he didn’t entirely blame him for that as she was a beautiful girl- and it annoyed him to no end that she always asked Ser Jorah to stay during her briefings and asked his opinion often throughout. Today alone, Mormont disputed his suggestions about several planned public appearances and accused Tyrion of misrepresenting facts when discussing some economic issue between the North and the Iron Islands.

“I certainly understand that you are a Northman, Ser Jorah, but given that you have not actually been to the North in almost a decade, I think I might be a little bit better informed on the matter than you, don’t you agree?” Tyrion snapped at last. 

“Have you ever even been to the North, my Lord?” Mormont countered. 

“I have. In fact, just last year I traveled to Winterfell and to Castle Black where I met your Lord father, who while brooding like his son, is a good man and knows how to be hospitable to his guests.”

Mormont looked caught off guard by this news but still growled, “You are not my guest.”

“But he is mine, Ser Jorah,” Daenerys interrupted, and Tyrion nearly smirked at how the large man’s eyes dropped to the ground, instantly chastened by the slight girl by his side.

“My apologies, Princess,” Mormont said humbly, although Tyrion noted that he directed no apology at him.

When at last the meeting was over, and Daenerys had left, Tyrion asked Ser Jorah to come visit him in his office that evening. “It is of the utmost importance to the Princess’s wellbeing,” he said before waddling out. 

\--- 

Tyrion had feared that Mormont would not show, so he was relieved when he heard a knock on his office door at 7pm. He answered and greeted the knight most politely but was met with a brusque, “What is this about, my Lord?” 

“Please, Ser Jorah, have a seat. Won’t you have some wine? I have a beautiful red from the Arbor and a white from Dorne,” Tyrion asked cheerfully as he poured himself a large glass. Varys had told him that Mormont was a drunk, though he’d appeared perfectly sober each time he’d seen him thus far, so he was slightly surprised when Mormont shook his head. Tyrion continued, “I also have whiskey if you’d prefer. Lord Varys told me you were rather partial.” The knight’s face darkened and his jaw clenched, and Tyrion wondered if Varys had known the reaction such an offer would bring. Tyrion, who was a drunk himself and perfectly content with that, had simply been trying to be hospitable and perhaps loosen Mormont up and had no desire to antagonize his guest just yet.

“I’m not here to socialize. What is it that you want, my Lord?” Mormont answered gruffly.

“Straight to the point then? Well, you see, the Princess has a few problems. The first is Robb Stark. As her PSO, you spend an inordinate amount of time around her, particularly in the evenings. So tell me, is Robb Stark fucking the Princess?” 

Mormont had reddened at that before growling, “Mind your tongue when you speak of the Princess.”

“So, yes?” pushed Tyrion.

“I’ll not answer such an insulting question. It is not your concern,” answered the knight.

“Well, you see, it is my concern because I am her advisor, and as the Crown Princess, who she sleeps with is a political matter. As you may have heard, her father much prefers Quentyn Martell, though if she doesn’t like him, perhaps we could come up with an alternate solution who is neither a Stark nor a Martell. Either way, as a Northman, you must understand the bad blood between Stark and Targaryen, neither father would ever approve. Frankly, I think it would be bad for Westeros, don’t you agree?”

Mormont gave a noncommittal grunt in response. 

“Has she brought up her reasoning for her preference for Robb to you?”

“I don’t even know that the Princess prefers one boy to the other,” Mormont said, and Tyrion was frustrated to discover that he couldn’t tell if the man was lying or not. He did seem the type who would be indifferent to subtleties such as a Lady’s feelings, but he spent so much time with her, surely he’d seen more than most. He decided to proceed as if Mormont was lying.

“No, of course you don’t. You only spend more time with her than anyone else. So perhaps she would listen to you on this matter and you could warn her away from the Stark boy. I heard he’s made some promises to a Frey girl anyhow, and I wouldn’t think you’d have much of a fondness for Starks at this point in your life since one of them wanted your head. And since who she surrounds herself with is another concern of mine as her advisor that brings me to the next problem- you.” 

He paused, expecting a response, but when he got one, he continued. “The Princess is an impressionable young thing, and given the amount of time she spends with you, it is natural that she should develop some sort of bond, although given that you are perhaps the least pleasant man I’ve ever met, I’m not sure what she sees in you. Nonetheless, surely you must recognize that your job is to guard her, not to advise her or be her friend, particularly given your rather tarnished reputation in Westeros. So in short, I would not object if you scare off Robb Stark or even sway her away from him yourself, but I need you to leave the rest of the advising to me, and I need you to stay in the background in public so that your disgrace can’t rub off on her.”

“If the Princess asks my opinion, I will give it, and if she wants me by her side, I will stay there. As for my past, it has been vetted by more powerful men than you and been deemed acceptable, so you needn’t worry yourself,” Mormont growled. 

“Mormont, I don’t think for a second that even you were stupid enough to commit a capital offense like desertion to escape whatever punishment may have awaited you simply for beating your wife. Being a Lord and all, you and I both know that you wouldn’t have been given more than a slap on the wrist, even if it would have been a very hard slap since you were fool enough to hit a Hightower and your Liege Lord was the honorable Ned Stark. So why did you really run, Mormont? Ned Stark must know. It will come out in time. Ah, and now you want to hit me, don’t you?”

The knight’s thick and rather dangerous looking hands were clenched in fists, his face dark, and for a moment, Tyrion feared he may have pushed too hard, but Ser Jorah had answered in a surprisingly calm voice, “I think I’m done here. I don’t report to you, Lannister, so keep that in mind the next time you want to waste my time.” 

“Are you familiar with the Rains of Castamere, Ser Jorah?” Tyrion asked pleasantly as Mormont stood up.

“Everyone in Westeros is familiar with that bloody song, but I’m not a Lord, proud or otherwise, so if you want to threaten me, think of something better.” 

The conversation was a lost cause, and Tyrion knew he should let it go, but he couldn’t help himself. It was too amusing to needle this particular bear. Besides, he was genuinely curious about what this man did on the few occasions when he was not following the Princess and her handmaids about the Keep and King’s Landing. “Ser Jorah, I think I know the perfect cure for your bad moods. It must be torture to spend all of your waking hours surrounded by pretty young women whom you cannot touch. It must be hard to find a woman in King’s Landing given that you are only free a few days each month, you have no charm, a diminished title, and a history of beating women. As a dwarf, I also have trouble finding a willing woman. Due to this shared experience, you are in luck though because I can recommend some fine brothels in the city. There, you don’t need to charm anyone, you only need to pay. I can even take you to my favorite one myself on your next weekend off, my treat. Or if you’d prefer, I could arrange to have some women brought into the Keep for you so that you don’t have to wait a month each time. We’d have to find a place for you to meet since of course you can’t take a whore into the Princess’s apartments, but I’d be happy to allow you use of my quarters.” Mormont had looked increasingly angry as he’d continued, but still he needled. “You disagree? But surely a strong, healthy man like yourself has needs that are not being met in your current position.”

“It’s a weak man who mistakes desire for need. I have no interest in whores,” interrupted Mormont coldly. 

“When was the last time you fucked, Mormont? Surely you had a woman or two in Essos after Lady Lynesse. I hear the Dothraki take their women in the open and share their slave women freely. I’m a private man myself, but I imagine a man who could sell his sword to a notorious Dothraki war criminal, a terrorist, some would say, would not have any qualms with that arrangement. But what about since you’ve been back in Westeros? Based on your moods, I suspect it’s been a while. You’ve been back for nearly a year now, and-” 

Tyrion would have continued, but Ser Jorah cut him off in a dangerous voice. “Watch yourself, Imp.” And then he’d stormed from the room.

Tyrion finished his wine in a few more gulps before refilling his glass. The conversation had not gone as he’d hoped. He’d certainly not gained an ally in convincing the Princess that Robb Stark was a bad idea. Still, he’d gained some insight into the knight. He’d seen the tick in his jaw.


	30. Chapter 17 - Jorah - January 1301 AC

**Chapter 17 - Jorah - January 1301 AC**

“Ser Jorah,” Daenerys called from the entrance to his chambers before coming in. Jorah stood quickly and tightened his tie. “I want to thank you for your help these past weeks. I am truly grateful.”

Jorah forced his face to remain impassive despite the jolt in his heart, and he bowed his head slightly, saying only, “I am honored to be of service.”

“Also,” continued Daenerys with a small smile, “I hear it is your name day. I’m sorry I did not know last year when you’d just joined the household, but I got you something this year. Happy 41st Name Day, Jorah!” And she held out a small package.

Jorah was startled by her knowledge. He had certainly not mentioned it to anyone in the Keep and hadn’t celebrated his name day in almost a decade, not since he’d left Bear Island, not since Lynesse... “Thank you, Princess,” he said, forcing his thoughts back to the present, his voice coming out husky with the emotion that he was trying to hide, as he took the package. “This really wasn’t necessary at all, but I am truly touched.” He carefully unwrapped a small box. Opening it, he saw a perfect replica of the signet ring that he’d lost all those years ago. He felt his throat tighten, and the only response he could manage was, “How did you know what it looked like?”

“It was very simple really,” she answered lightly. “I asked one of my father’s archivists to look into it. The same company has been making them for ages, so I had a copy made using your house’s sigil. You’d be amazed by the records they keep. They didn’t have a record of your size though, so if it doesn’t fit, I’ll have a jeweler fix it straight away.”

He tried the ring on, and it was a perfect fit. “I don’t know what to say, Khaleesi. I’m not sure that I am worthy to wear it any longer, but this is the most touching gift I have ever received.”

“I say you are worthy to wear it, and I am to be Queen someday. And when I am Queen, you will be given far greater honors, Ser,” she said with a sweet smile which made his heart soar. “Now, I’d like you to enjoy yourself today, and I’ve had a dinner made in your honor.” She’d hesitated slightly before continuing, “But afterwards, I would be most grateful if you could stand guard at the door. I hate to ask on your name day, but you don’t mind, do you?”

He felt his heart clench painfully as it crashed back to earth then, but he’d bowed his head in a nod at her request. 

\--- 

Later that night, Jorah paced by the main entrance to Daenerys’ apartments, trying to stay awake. The dinner she’d had made was delicious and now sat heavily in his stomach, and while he’d been touched by the gesture, he would have much preferred the honor of eating with less company. He hadn’t particularly minded the handmaids’ presence, or even that of Grey, but he’d been painfully aware of Robb holding Daenerys’ hand, and the loud, somewhat mocking laughter of Theon Greyjoy. Robb, surely trying to be friendly and polite, had asked him uncomfortable questions about his past in the North as well. Jorah had dodged the tricky questions well enough and was somewhat relieved to know that Lord Stark hadn’t shared the darker details with his eldest son and heir, but the guilt he’d felt and, to his shame, the fear of discovery rather ruined his mood. To make matters worse, Daenerys had gotten a bottle of vintage Barrowlands whiskey just for him, how she knew,  _ if  _ she knew that he was rather partial to it, he did not know, and she seemed so disappointed when he’d declined a drink that he’d agreed to have just one small drink. Once the taste hit his tongue, it had taken all of his resolve not to have another, especially as Theon helped himself to several drinks, and wine and beer poured freely around him.

Now he stood guard, his heart in shreds, for though he would do everything in his power to keep the news from Tyrion Lannister, Robb Stark was, in fact, fucking the Princess. 

\---

In late November, the weekend after his latest run-in with Varys, Daenerys had come to Jorah seemingly embarrassed.

“What troubles you, Khaleesi?” he’d finally asked, sensing her discomfort. “I am here for whatever you need.”

She’d brightened slightly, and then, to his utter shock, she’d exclaimed, “I’d like you to stand as witness when I marry Robb this afternoon.” 

Jorah had been flabbergasted with no clue how to reply, so he’d simply gaped at her for a moment before finally managing, “Marry? Princess, what do you mean?”

Daenerys had laughed and replied, “Why, just what I said, Ser Jorah, I will wed Robb Stark this afternoon.”

“But when did you decide? And forgive my forwardness, but are you sure it is wise so soon? He seems an honorable man, but you do not know him so well, and you are still young. Might it not be better to wait and at least finish your studies first? So many women never finish once they are married.”

“I am not a child, Ser, and my decision has been made,” she’d responded sharply. He bowed slightly and looked at the floor. Then she’d continued in a gentler voice, “I’m sorry to have taken you by surprise. Robb and I wish to marry today, in a private ceremony. We will have a larger wedding at a future date. We have found a septon who is willing, and we would like you to be our only witness. I trust you more than anyone in this matter.”

“But does the King know?” he’d protested weakly. When Daenerys shook her head no, he’d exclaimed, “He’ll have me burned alive, and Lord Robb too!” 

“Once we are married, Robb will be his kin, so he cannot harm him, and you are my brave, fierce bear. I know that you won’t tell a soul and that you’d not fear my father’s wrath, but I’ll tell him I ordered it if he finds out. I promise I will not leave you to be punished on my behalf again.” Jorah had no doubt that the Mad King would not care if he had been ordered or not, but before he could protest further, she hesitated, and he saw tears in her eyes as she continued, “My father is going to announce my betrothal to Quentyn Martell this spring. He says I must marry him. If I marry Robb now, he cannot undo it, and he cannot make me marry another. Robb is from a Great House and heir to the North. He will make a worthy Prince Consort, and my father will accept it if he’s given no other option. Please, Jorah, help me. I need this from you.” And she reached up and touched him gently on the cheek, her beautiful, pleading eyes shimmering with tears, and he could barely breath nevermind even think to deny her. When he’d nodded his consent, she’d given him a smile and kissed him softly on his cheek, and he couldn’t help but remember with yearning another time her lips had touched his cheek and what she had asked of him that night. With that memory in mind, he’d stood and watched her declare herself one with another man, and felt his own heart in shreds even as he tried to convince himself that he felt nothing but lust for her. He congratulated the couple afterwards with a forced smile on his face and had been the lone guest at their wedding dinner since Daenerys had given her handmaids the night off so that they would not be involved in the plot.

He’d stood vigil at the main entrance to her apartments on her wedding night as well, charged with ensuring that nobody entered or saw Robb, painfully aware of what was happening in her chambers. When he’d finally pulled himself out of the depths of despair after Lynesse, he’d sworn to himself that he would harden his heart so that he could never be so hurt again, but as he stood guard on that night, he knew that he’d failed for he surely felt heartbreak again. He’d been wallowing in self pity when he’d been surprised by Robb slipping out the door after hardly any time at all. The boy had the nerve to wink at him. “Leaving so soon, my Prince?” he asked cautiously.

“Aye, my Lord father has sent Ser Rodrick to meet me on some business, he’ll be to my place by now, so I need to get back. And you mustn’t use that title yet until it’s known,” said the young man. 

“Of course. Will you be back tomorrow then, my Lord, perhaps to break your fast with your new bride?” Jorah asked. 

“No, I need to return to Winterfell for a week, and anyway, it’s probably best if I don’t spend too much extra time around the Red Keep lest someone become suspicious. I had a wonderful evening though,” he said with a smile. Jorah felt as if his face had turned to stone, and Robb had the good grace to look embarrassed before wishing him a good night.

When he re-entered her apartments, he found Daenerys standing in the kitchen in her nightgown, her eyes puffy. She’d looked away when she saw him and started to return to her chambers, but while averting his eyes, he’d asked softly, “Are you alright, Khaleesi?”

She sighed and sat on the couch and he sat a respectable distance away trying not to look at her, the sheer material of the nightgown doing little to cover her form, his heart thudding painfully, wanting to comfort her in her obvious distress but not wanting to overstep his bounds. The silence stretched on for some time before she said softly, “I confess this was not how I imagined my wedding day.”

“I have no doubt that your public wedding will be all that you dreamed, Princess. Westeros will speak of it for years. But you are happy with your groom, are you not?”

His words did not seem to help nor did she quickly answer his question. After a short pause, she asked in a whisper, “Do you know, Ser, is it always so painful for the woman?” And he wished he had throttled the Stark boy when he’d left.

He replied carefully, “The first time is always hard for a maiden. It will get easier, Princess. I daresay most women come to find pleasure in it if the man knows what he’s doing.” He paused for a moment, looking at her face while carefully avoiding the rest of her, before continuing, “He should not have left so quickly.” 

“Did your Lady wife find pleasure in it?” she asked.

He felt himself redden. If Daenerys had known what a complicated question that was, she might not have asked. But Daenerys did not know that Sarra had ever existed, so he answered only for Lynesse. “Aye, she did. But I was not an inexperienced boy, nor inconsiderate to her desires.”  _ And Lynesse was no maiden when she came to you, though you were surely far worse to Sarra than Robb was tonight, old man _ , he reminded himself _ .  _ “Do you know, has Robb dated or- well does he have any previous experience with a girl?”

“He told me he dated a Frey girl at university, but he never dishonored her. Ser, would you speak to Robb?” she asked, her eyes pleading.

Jorah nearly laughed at the request though he stifled it. “Khaleesi, I don’t think he would take too kindly to such a conversation, especially from a man like me. It would hurt his pride. You should not fear telling him yourself what you desire, what you want from him.”

“I don’t know what to ask for, Jorah,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes.

He wanted to reach out and comfort her for she deserved so much better.  _ Oh, the things I would show you, Daenerys, the things I would make you feel! _ he thought before banishing the impossible from his mind and responding, “Perhaps you should speak to your handmaids to see if they have any better experiences they could share with you. You needn’t tell them that you married, I think the fewer who know about this the better for now, you needn’t even tell them you’ve done anything at all. You could just be curious about the possibility of someday.”

She considered what he said for a moment, and then stood, thanking him. He rose quickly to his feet and was shocked when she came towards him and embraced him tightly. After a brief hesitation, he gently returned the embrace, which she held for a long time before she turned and went back into her chambers. 

\---

Since the marriage, Daenerys had certainly spoken to her handmaids as he’d heard the girls giggling, and he’d made the mistake of walking into the kitchen to refill his coffee mug one afternoon as they’d looked through some magazines that Doreah had procured. 

“Ser Jorah,” asked Doreah sweetly, “What was your favorite position in bed with your Lady wife?”

“What?” sputtered Jorah, nearly spitting out his coffee.

“You strike me as a man who’d be rather rough, but I suppose you are a bear of sorts…” she continued as Irri giggled. “Did you enjoy the taste of honey?” 

Jorah found himself completely tongue tied and looking desperately to Daenerys, who looked both slightly amused and also confused, for help although he quickly looked away as forbidden images filled his mind. His lack of answer did nothing to quiet Doreah who went on, “We are looking at a very helpful article about how a woman can best pleasure a man and how she can find her own pleasure. Perhaps you’d care to join us and tell us if you agree with the methods mentioned?” 

As Irri nearly screamed with laughter, Daenerys finally spoke. “Stop teasing Ser Jorah,” she said. “You are dismissed, Ser, if you wish to leave our company for now.” 

“Thank you, Princess,” Jorah said with a bow before hurrying from the room, followed by the hysterical laughter of Irri and Doreah, and even the giggles of Missandei and Daenerys.

Robb had stayed late in her chambers a few more times since then, and Daenerys had seemed somewhat happier afterwards. Each time, Daenerys asked Jorah to stand guard, and while Robb never stayed all the way until the morning, he stayed for longer than that first night. Jorah remembered young love and the bliss he’d felt during the early days of his own marriage to Lynesse, and he knew Daenerys had no clue how much the duty pained him, nevermind humiliated him, and this night, as on past nights, as on the day he’d stood as their witness, he scolded himself fiercely.  _ You fool! What did you expect? Did you truly think you’d had a chance? Have you learned nothing in your life? It’s only lust you feel for her anyhow, not love, never love.  _ His heart protested, but he’d told it to shut up. 

He truly wanted Daenerys to be happy, and Robb was certainly honorable enough, what son of Ned Stark wouldn’t be, though men once would have said the same of a son of Jeor Mormont, he reminded himself. And while Jorah found Robb to be chivalrous, he had not yet determined if he was kind, loving, and unselfish or simply on a fling, or worse, seeking power. 

Just as concerning, he did not think Daenerys knew Robb all that well, nor he her. In truth, they’d only spent time together on perhaps a dozen occasions in the five months that they’d known each other, and in these early days of their marriage, they rarely saw each other. It was Jorah and the handmaids who had been present to spend Starnight with her, Jorah and the handmaids who had helped her decorate her Southron tree in preparation, Jorah who had explained how the celebration differed in the North among those who kept the Old Gods, the Gods of her husband, and Jorah who had stayed up with her until midnight on New Year’s Eve as Robb had returned to Winterfell for the holidays. Robb had sent an elegant, pricey necklace to his new wife for Starnight not unlike a similar piece gifted by Quentyn, while Jorah had given her a simple sandsilk scarf made in the Dothraki fashion bought in the marketplace in Flea Bottom, and while he’d been embarrassed by its simpleness at first, he thought Daenerys may have been more delighted with his gift than with her jewels. “I shall feel like a true Khaleesi when I wear it!” she’d exclaimed. And he thought her own gift to him, a scabbard decorated with peacock feathers, far more personal than the expensive watch she gave to Robb which was not unlike what she felt obligated to give to Quentyn. “It was made in Qarth,” she explained with a smile. “I know you must miss your home during the holidays, and I know you cannot wear it with your uniform, but when we go riding, I thought it fitting for the guard and closest companion of a Khaleesi.” 

Now Robb was back after several weeks away, though he’d be leaving again in a few days time. While perhaps distance makes the heart grow fonder, Jorah knew from personal experience that such separation so early in a marriage could bring its own troubles particularly when the bride and groom did not know one another well before their marriage. 

On top of it all, through his contact, he knew that Varys was not happy with him for his information remained sparse and not particularly forthcoming, and Jorah did not know what to do. He’d reported that things were rather serious between the Princess and Robb, that she greatly preferred the Stark boy to Quentyn, but he’d withheld information on the marriage itself thus far, and the last time he’d been asked, he’d said he was fairly certain that Daenerys was still a maiden. Daenerys had picked him out of everyone to be the sole witness to her marriage and her sole guard on nights when her husband visited her chambers because she trusted him. He desperately wanted to honor that trust, but Varys seemed to find out everything in time. All it would take was for the septon to speak one word to someone, or for one of the handmaids to figure out a fragment of the truth and gossip. He trusted Missandei and marginally trusted Irri, but something about Doreah aside from her constant flirtation rubbed him the wrong way, and if he kept something of this magnitude from Varys only to be discovered later...

So, the whole night, he’d paced, his heart in pain, at war with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by many of the other recently posted works, Starnight is this world's version of Christmas and aligns with the Winter Solstice. Also, maybe not super relevant in this story just yet, but modern-ish day Westeros has regular seasons.


	31. Bliss? - July 1290 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a date standpoint, this is a little over half a year after he was married to Lynesse and more than a year before he sold the horses.

** _Bliss? - July 1290 AC_ **

_ Lynesse had desired and loved Jorah in a way he had never imagined any woman could. As miserable as she was on Bear Island, he still seemed to please her in bed. Remembering how Sarra had been almost fearful of his body and of his most intimate acts of affection, he told himself that this was what had been missing before, for there had been no fire or passionate love in his previous marriage. And while he was proud that he pleased her, she, the most beautiful woman on earth, a goddess in human form, made him happier than he ever thought possible.  _

_ During the early months of his marriage, he had smiled and laughed with Lynesse as he hadn’t remembered doing since his mother was alive when he was a small boy. Miraculously, he’d found that his nightmares had lessened since he’d come to love her as well. After Pyke, he’d feared that the horrors to increase, with new memories to add to his visions of Astapor, but instead, he’d found that when they made love deep into the night and fell asleep with their naked bodies tangled together, his dreams were less ferocious and frequent and did not manifest themselves physically often at all. He’d truly believed that her love was healing him in a way he’d given up hope was even possible. He went about in a near constant state of awe and bliss even as he despaired about her unhappiness, for he could hardly believe that someone as beautiful and perfect as Lynesse could want him, could love him, and could bring him such happiness and pleasure. She was everything he had wanted- a woman he loved who loved him in return, not out of duty, not because she’d been made to marry him, but because she’d chosen him for herself, presumably because she found him to be strong and brave and loving and honorable and charming and lordly and desirable and handsome enough and all of the other things that others- his father, his aunt, his peers, and sometimes even his cousins- had led him to believe he was not. But still, he surely didn’t deserve someone as wonderful as her, especially after how poor a husband he’d been before, and he’d told himself everything he did was worth it for her love and happiness. He felt as if he had been given a new life, a true second chance by the Gods, and he did not intend to ruin it this time.  _

_ His military duties took him to Deepwood Motte many weekdays or he had to be up early to see to the small detachment stationed on Bear Island and to the responsibilities of his lordship if time was left in the day, but on the weekends, he and Lynesse had taken to not rising until hours after the rest of the household, and he’d end up neglecting his lordly duties saved for those days. It wasn’t that he didn’t try to get up earlier. He’d awaken at a perfectly acceptable time, for first his father and then his military life had made him an early riser, but then he’d see the beauty lying next to him, and as often as not, he’d gather her in his arms and before he’d know it, hours had passed. On those few occasions when some more pressing matter awaited him and he did actually try to get up, his wife would pout and then draw him back to bed with her soft touch, or on the rare instances when that alone did not work, she would get up after him as he started to dress, sashaying her hips and taking his cock in her hands, and he’d laugh and let her lead him back to bed. Those other things could wait for her. _

_ This morning, when he’d finally dressed and headed downstairs, it was once again well past when he’d intended to rise, and he was met with a look of disgust from Aunt Maege and snorts of laughter from Dacey and Alysane. “You know the walls of the Keep are not that thick, Jorah. You kept us awake long enough last night, I’d thought this morning we might finally have some peace,” Dacey had said with a laugh.  _

_ “Hush, girl,” Maege had snapped. “It is so kind of you to join us though, Jorah. I hope you don’t mind that I took care of that meeting with the village council this morning since we couldn’t very well wait until you decided to get out of bed. However, the dockmaster has been waiting for you for nearly a quarter hour now, so if you are finally quite awake and unoccupied, you should perhaps see to him.” _

_ Jorah had turned red with anger and embarrassment, but answered cooly, “I’m sure you can manage whatever he needs, Aunt Maege. You run the Island so flawlessly when I am away.” _

_ “Well, since you see fit to withdraw money right and left from our coffers to spoil your little wife, I thought it might be good for you to better understand where it comes from,” she’d retorted. And so Jorah had begrudgingly gone with her to meet with the dockmaster. _

_ When at last the meeting was done, he’d taken his midday meal outside to enjoy the sun and warmth of the summer months which would be gone too soon, though Maege would have preferred he spent the whole afternoon at his desk. He’d hoped Lynesse would join him and maybe go sailing with him afterwards for the deskwork could wait until tomorrow, but she had taken her meal into the den where she wanted to watch one of her soap operas, telling him that if he ever got a true yacht instead of a little sailboat, she’d join him, so it was Dacey who sat beside him instead. “Brother, I’m worried about you. Are you happy?” she’d said with no preamble. _

_ Jorah’s defenses had immediately risen, and he’d snapped, “There is nothing to worry about. I am happier than I have ever been in my life. Is it truly so hard for you to believe that, or to believe that I am in love? I don’t understand why you and your mother and sisters can’t accept that and won’t be kinder to Lynesse.” He thought they’d disliked her from the start, Maege most of all, but her daughters had followed suit, judging her as too soft and too pretty and too Southron.  _

_ “Truly, Jorah? I have no doubt you make a fine pair in bed, we can all hear her, and I can only assume that you are enjoying yourself as well, but she’s miserable here. I know she’s your trophy for winning your knighthood, and you want to keep her content, but Mother says you are spending far too much trying to buy her happiness. It won’t last.” She said it in that teasing tone that she’d used with him since they were young, but he bristled nonetheless. _

_ “She’s not my trophy. She’s my wife, and I’d have you know that she loves me every bit as much as I love her. Give her some time, she’s young, and maybe try to make her feel welcome for a change. She’ll get used to it here.”  _

_ “It is true she is young, Jorah, I think Lyra and Jorelle are more mature though they’re not even ten. But it isn’t just the Island she dislikes. She seems to hate so many of the things you love, so many of the things that define you. And she has you wrapped around her little finger, your brain stops working the instant she touches you, and you’re acting like a fool as a result. How would you have responded if Sarra had criticized you like she does, or if she had ever slapped you as I’ve seen Lynesse do?” _

_ “I was terrible to Sarra. I’ll not repeat those mistakes with Lynesse. Am I not allowed to grow and be a better husband than I was?” he’d growled, reddening to know that Dacey had seen him get slapped. _

_ “I’d have you grow wiser, Jorah, not grow backwards into some smitten boy. I understand that she’s a pretty, young thing, Jorah, and that perhaps you do love her, or at least the idea of her, so much so that it blinds you, but you must stand up for yourself and for the House and the Island.”  _

_ Jorah had bristled at that, growling, “There is nothing to stand up for, and I’ll remind you that Lynesse is the Lady of House Mormont now,” before he stalked away. He reminded himself often to be patient with Lynesse, but Dacey was not being fair. It was natural that it should take her some time to adjust to Bear Island. She  _ was _ young, and she’d left everyone and everything she’d ever known behind to come here for him after all, and he left her alone for hours most weekdays as he went about his duties. Having spent time in the Reach, he also had to admit that life on Bear Island might seem rather harsh and primitive to someone who grew up in urban luxury as she did, and his aunt and cousins had truly never done more than the bare minimum to try to make her feel welcome. But as he launched his boat and continued to brood on Dacey’s words, he saw some truth in them as well. Lynesse disliked more than just the lack of luxury and the climate.  _

_ She had been exceptionally jealous of the very idea of Sarra from the start and insisted that Jorah remove all reminders of her from the Keep even as he’d tried to explain to her that his heart belonged only to her now. He’d stood by and watched with a pain that seemed to reach his soul as pictures were taken down and bedding was replaced, never mind that the bedding was already new, the sheets he’d shared with Sarra stained red beyond saving. She’d even insisted he box up several books that Sarra had given him when she saw the evidence of the inscriptions Sarra had written on the inside of the front covers, and several other gifts only escaped storage because he didn’t tell her where they’d come from. She’d become nearly hysterical when she discovered a picture of Sarra in Jorah’s wallet several months later, and Jorah had tried to appease her by saying he forgot it was even in there. “Why are you going through my wallet though? If you have need of anything, just tell me,” he’d added in confusion. _

_ “My sister says it’s where men hide their condoms if they’re being unfaithful,” she’d said, sobbing suddenly. _

_ “Lynesse, I would never do such a thing. I’ve told you, you’re the Maid in the flesh, the most beautiful, most perfect woman in the world. I love you. I have all I could ever want in you,” he’d said, holding her, trying to calm her, not daring to admit that he’d done exactly what she’d described in his last marriage. But later, she’d said she hadn’t meant it, that she knew he would be faithful, and she’d touched him in such a gentle almost apologetic way that he’d felt instantly blissfully happy again, but this understanding did little to ease her unhappiness. _

_ Jorah had bought Lynesse a fine horse as a belated wedding gift, hoping she’d join him on the trails to the more remote corners of the Island, but she hated riding. He’d tried to show her the beauty of the forest and the wild flowers and the waterfalls that he loved, but she’d preferred to stay inside, particularly if there was even a slight chill in the air, and when he’d presented her with a bouquet of wild roses recently, which he’d picked himself, she’d scoffed at them, saying they did not compared to the ‘real’ roses she’d seen in florist shops, and she’d told him to throw them away though she’d told him later, as he’d caressed her in their bed, that she knew he meant well. While she liked the love poems he recited to her, she’d mocked his love of reading it as effeminate, so he no longer read many of his books in her presence. And every time he turned on a rugby match, she’d sigh and complain that he was ignoring her even when he tried to pull her onto his lap and explain the rules to her, though when he’d turned off the television and tickled her and she’d laughed squirming in his arms, he’d decided he’d rather do that than watch rugby anyhow. _

_ She disparaged the worn jeans and cargo pants, t-shirts, and gym attire he favored when not in uniform or acting in some official capacity as Lord, so he’d found himself dragged along on shopping trips to Deepwood Motte as she bought him designer jeans and stylish shirts and shoes that would get ruined on the Island if he wore them about. He’d found that when they weren’t in bed, nearly the only way to keep her happy was to buy her endless gifts- jewelry, electronics, designer clothes, shoes, and purses, flowers imported from far away - which made her squeal with happiness, although he’d noticed she rarely wore the same thing twice and tired of near everything he bought her quickly. But her happiness when that gift was new made him overlook the rest. _

_ _

_ She’d made enemies of his aunt and cousins as she never lifted a finger to help around the Keep, saying that was the role of commoners, even as they regularly helped with the cleaning, cooking, and washing and even plenty of outdoor work since House Mormont employed only a few servants. She was appalled by the fact that women on the Island trained with weapons, and she’d told Jorah that it was un-lordly when he chopped wood, cared for the horses, worked on the grounds, and the like. She’d insisted that as a Lord, he must have a squire, but when he’d picked one of the stableboys, a commoner from the village, she’d complained that he needed someone of better stock.  _

_ His scars, which she sometimes said made him look a hero, other times she called ugly. Once, she’d even mocked his hairy chest. Mortified, he’d asked if it would please her more if he shaved it, but she’d only laughed and said then he’d have to trim his arms and legs as well, and it would do little to improve his looks so he shouldn’t bother. It was her own fault for marrying a bear. She’d then added that it was a good thing that he had a magic cock and tongue to make up for it, and while she may have meant that last part as a compliment, he’d felt hurt nonetheless. In private, she called him her bear as an endearment, but when she used the nickname when she spoke to her sisters, cousins, and friends from the Reach on her endless long distance phone calls, she did not seem to mean it kindly. And when he’d been injured once in a military training accident, she’d pouted at his short term infirmity and neglect of her instead of offering him any comfort or concern.  _

_ _

_ Jorah had desperately wanted to be a father, and though he was far more cognizant than most men of the physical toll that pregnancy took on a woman, he also thought that perhaps Lynesse would find some joy in motherhood. But when he’d finally broached the idea of trying for a baby a few months ago, she’d bristled and said surely he didn’t want her to lose her beauty so soon, as she’d seen what happened to women once they became mothers. He’d told her gently that he thought she’d be more beautiful than ever with his child growing inside of her, and later, with his child in her arms. He’d meant it because he remembered that he’d never found Sarra pretty except when her stomach was swollen with his babe, and then he’d thought she was truly beautiful. But Lynesse had called him a liar and became upset, so he’d dropped the subject and told himself that she was still young. There would be time enough for children later. _

_ And on those rare occasions when his dreams still snuck up on him in the night and he’d cried out in his sleep and woke trembling, he’d been immensely hurt when she’d mocked his manhood and his bravery instead of soothing him although on most of those nights, she did allow him to calm himself by making love to her, and then he immediately forgot the hurt.  _

_ It was also true that she criticized him loudly in front of his family and the servants quite regularly, and once she had even slapped him within view of Tom, who kept the grounds and stables, although he had not realized that Dacey had ever seen it. He burned with humiliation at the thought. _

_ The first time she’d struck him had been barely two months into their marriage, on Starnight Eve. Bear Island kept the Old Gods, but Jorah was familiar with how the day was celebrated in the South, both from the books he’d read as a boy and from the Starnights he’d spent with his Southron regiment, twice in Astapor and once in Highgarden. Besides, Lynesse had been speaking of the holiday excitedly for days, telling him every detail of her family’s traditions. She had been oblivious that things were done differently in the North until Jorah had explained it to her gently, but he’d promised that he would make the Keep feel like home for her as well. So he’d taken Tom and the stableboy named Asher, who was sometimes his squire, up into the forest to find the perfect tree. “You mean to put the tree inside, m’Lord? But why?” the boy, who had not yet learned to mind his tongue, had asked in confusion before Tom had shushed him.  _

_ “It’s how they do things in the South, Asher, and I want to make your Lady feel at home for the holidays,” Jorah had explained cheerfully as they dragged the tree back to the Keep.  _

_ Maege gave him an incredulous look as he and his helpers hauled the small pine into the great hall and exclaimed, “You do realize this is Bear Island, Jorah, not Highgarden?” His cousins had looked on with amusement as well, though Jorelle agreed to help him hang the lights and ornaments that he’d bought. He’d arranged candles too, just in case the power went out, and when it was done, when it looked nearly as good as any Starnight tree he’d seen in the South or on TV or in magazines, he’d shooed away the rest of the family, turned on a CD with Starnight songs favored in the South, and had gone to fetch Lynesse, excited to surprise her.  _

_ When he’d uncovered her eyes, she’d looked delighted for a moment, but then her face fell. “It’s not the right type of tree, Jorah. The pattern of the needles is wrong” _

_ “Well, it’s as close as I could find on the island, love. You likely had your tree shipped from the Riverlands or the Neck. We don’t have the exact same type of pine trees here. But wait, I’ll turn it on. With the lights, you’ll hardly notice the difference.” And he’d plugged it in and stood, and the beauty of it made him smile though his father would call him a soft, Southron fool for it. _

_ When he’d turned back to Lynesse, she looked even more distraught. “I told you we had white lights at home, not the multi-colored type.” She suddenly looked furious even as tears sprung into her eyes, and she’d slapped him hard across the face. “I told you at least a dozen times, Jorah. Don’t you ever listen? You’ve ruined it! This is nothing like home!” _

_ He’d been shocked by her reaction but also felt rage rising within him the instant she slapped him. But then he’d been terrified that he might do to Lynesse what he’d done to Sarra, that he’d lay hands on his Lady wife, abuse her, fail to protect and honor her, which he could never, ever do again. So he’d forced the fury, the anger, the harsh words back down. She  _ had _ described the white lights numerous times after all. She’d even showed him a picture from a magazine, saying it looked just like her tree at home. It was his own fault for not paying close enough attention, for not realizing that the color mattered to her. He had promised her he would make the Keep like home for her this holiday, and now he’d failed. A good husband would have done better. Surely a small slap was the least he deserved for that, so he’d said nothing as she’d stormed from the room. She’d pouted much of the rest of the day, so he’d entered his chambers with trepidation. He found her already laid out on the bed in nothing but her robe, and she’d smiled at him softly. “I shouldn’t have been so sharp earlier, Jorah. I know you meant well, and I think your lips and tongue might be able to make it up to me,” she’d said as she spread her legs, and Jorah had been more than happy to oblige.  _

_ She’d slapped him since for a number of things- the time she’d done it in front of Tom at the stables, it was because he’d come back to the Keep with his clothes spattered with mud just as her friend from the Reach had arrived for a visit. “Seriously, Jorah, must you always be so uncouth? I told her I was married to a true Lord, but now she’ll think I’m married to a wild bear. I told you a dozen times she’d be here at noon,” she’d hissed- and every time he’d felt embarrassed and ashamed and certain that it was his fault.  _

_ He’d returned to the Keep that evening in a dark mood and with a thirst for drink, but Lynesse had hugged him and kissed him passionately with such a beautiful smile, and later, when she’d taken his hand and led him to bed, he couldn’t remember why he’d been upset.  _

_ Perhaps Dacey was right, he’d though, perhaps his brain did stop working when she touched him. But it wasn’t every touch. No, it was only those touches, loving touches, that promised more. Because she loved him. She told him so every day. She could have had her pick of more worthy and handsome men from far higher houses than his, but she had chosen him because she loved him. It was all far more than he deserved. He was in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and she loved him back. Anything was worth it for her. _

  
  



	32. Chapter 18 - Daenerys - February 1301 AC

**Chapter 18 - Daenerys - February 1301 AC**

Daenerys had been looking forward to her long weekend excursion to Blackhaven at the edge of the Red Mountains and the Dornish Marshes for weeks. While she would miss Robb, who was heading to the Twins for his uncle’s wedding, she was excited for the three day weekend, in honor of Kings’ Day, and for the chance to ride after months indoors during the early part of the winter.

As she watched Ser Jorah see to the final preparations, Robb approached, took her hand and kissed it. “I shall tell my father about us when I see him,” he promised. “Be safe on your trip, sweetheart,” he added, and then he’d glanced at Ser Jorah. “I told my father I’d met your Ser Jorah. He says he must speak to me about him when he next sees me. He is certainly a hard man, and I’m sure my father wants to make sure I know he fled duty once before, but I’m glad he’s going with you. I trust he’ll keep you and the baby safe.” And he’d smiled broadly before walking away. 

It was true, she was with child. It must have happened very shortly after her marriage. Ser Jorah had figured it out somehow, perhaps even before she was willing to admit it to herself, after she’d been ill for numerous days in a row. She’d noticed him watching her even more carefully than usual for several days, and then one day when they were alone, rather out of the blue, he’d asked softly, “What will you do, Princess?”

“What do you mean?”

“What will you do about… your condition? Have you told anyone?” he pressed. She knew exactly what he meant, but she wanted to hear it from him plainly, so she looked at him and waited as he turned red, and at last he said, “Forgive my boldness, Khaleesi, but when was your last moon’s blood?”

Now that he had said it out loud, there was no more avoiding it, and she answered in no time as all. “I carry the future king or queen of Westeros. What on earth do you think I’d do? And no one knows yet but me, and I suppose now you.”

She could tell Ser Jorah was carefully measuring his next words as he fidgeted with his holster with one hand and rubbed his chin with the other. He was nervous, and that made her even more nervous. “Daenerys, you cannot hide this for much longer. His Grace will not be happy about this or your marriage. You must tell him soon. He may be angry either way, but I think most fathers would rather hear the news from their child’s mouth than from another’s. And you must tell Lord Robb. When His Grace finds out, he’ll be very angry with him as well.”

He was right of course, as he always was, but it irked her that he told her what she must do, what she cannot do. She was to be Queen someday, and he was her servant afterall. “I am fully aware that I cannot hide this forever, Ser,” she snapped. “I will tell my father in due time, and of course I will tell my husband as well. Until that time, I will hear no more of the matter, and I trust that I will have your discretion as I have in other matters.”

Ser Jorah had looked suitably chastened though he opened his mouth as if he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he bowed his head, and that had been the end of the conversation. And while she had eventually told Robb, she’d not yet told her father, putting it off and then putting it off some more. As for Ser Jorah, he had obeyed her command and not spoken of it again, but she’d noticed that he’d practically doted on her since. He seemed more protective than ever, and when he’d somehow figured out that the smell of his precious coffee made her ill, he’d stopped drinking it, despite the fact that he’d once seemed to drink it by the gallon. One day, he’d handed her an unlabeled bottle of pills- “Vitamins, Khaleesi, for the baby. You should take one a day,” he told her-, and then he’d come up with the plan to get her to a maester.

\---

They’d been driven to KLU under the guise of going to an extra credit lecture. Jorah told her they could use other transportation from there but had explained little else of his plan beforehand. Once in the lecture hall, he gave her a change of clothes, commoner’s clothes, he explained, and told her to take off her jewelry as well. After she was changed, and he as well, he’d given her a drab, brown headscarf to cover her hair and part of her face. “There is a certain sect amongst the followers of R’hllor whose women wear these scarves for the sake of modesty,” he explained in a low voice as he led her away from the campus to a bus stop, glancing over his shoulder several times on the way. “There’s a medical clinic in Flea Bottom, I’ve heard the maester is very good, and he takes walk-ins. I shall be your husband, or perhaps your boyfriend as we have no rings.” She thought Jorah had looked rather pleased at the thought as reached for her hand, stopping himself just before touching her, awaiting her nod of consent before taking it in his large, calloused hand and giving it a light squeeze as he played his role. 

She’d been both fascinated and shocked at the sights on the bus and then later as Jorah led her through Flea Bottom. She’d never been, not even in a car, and as she walked through the crowded streets, she took in the sights and smells. Small stalls were set up along both sides of the main road which was in serious need of repair, and noise and commotion came from all sides as cars, bikes, horses, mules, carts, and pedestrians clogged the streets and sidewalks, stall keepers loudly hawked their wares, street preachers ranted on several corners, children ran about, women, who must have been whores, shouted to potential customers, and many of the potential customers shouted crudely back. There were drunks, beggars, and pickpockets so she must watch out, or so Jorah told her as he elbowed away a young man who got too close. She saw people sleeping in cardboard boxes and inside of makeshift tents set up in alleys next to piles of garbage which seemed to be everywhere, and she heard various dialects of Valarian along with the Common Tongue. She’d never seen such poverty and could not imagine living in such conditions, and she was about to ask Jorah yet another question about what she saw around her when he pulled her a bit closer to him as he glanced over his shoulder for at least the tenth time. “Is it pickpockets you worry about, Ser Jorah, or something else?” she asked. “Surely all of these precautions are unnecessary.”

Ser Jorah had grown even more serious than usual, and he turned her to face him, taking both of her hands, though he looked at her feet for a moment. “Khaleesi, there is something I must tell you, something you must know.” He hesitated when he looked up to meet her eyes, and she thought she saw such pain, such conflict, that she couldn’t imagine what troubled him. Before she could ask, he blinked and the emotion disappeared, and he was once more her stoic, reliable confidant and friend, and he continued, “You should trust no one. There are men within King’s Landing, within the very walls of the Red Keep who do not have your best interest at heart. And there are men who would turn on you the instant it no longer benefits them. The city is full of spies and backstabbers and treacherous snakes, each looking out only for their own benefit or with loyalties that you may not know about. There are many who could use the knowledge of your pregnancy for their own gain and many who would use it against you and the King, or against you and your Lord husband. So please, be careful in this matter, and follow my lead.”

They waited in the reception room for a long while amongst crying babies, coughing elderly, and everyone in between. Daenerys sat in a chair, and Jorah stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder, for there were not enough chairs for everyone. When they were finally called, the maester looked exhausted, but he was patient and kind. Jorah had played his role well, kissing her hand as she became teary-eyed when the maester showed them the ultrasound, and she allowed Jorah to take the lead in speaking as well, pretending that she spoke the Common Tongue poorly, for Ser Jorah told her that her accent would give away her high birth. Instead, they spoke Dothraki with Jorah acting as translator, for he had said that it was highly unlikely that the maester would know the language. When the maester was done, Jorah had paid the receptionist the small sum that the maester requested of those who were able, Jorah telling her softly as they left that even that sum was more than most could afford. As they walked towards the bus stop, Jorah suddenly paused. “Are you hungry? Would you indulge me in our charade for a few minutes longer? For if you were my lady, carrying my child, and we’d just left such an appointment, I’d certainly offer to buy you a treat.” 

Daenerys accepted the offer with a smile, feeling suddenly giddy in the freedom her disguise allowed, and after perusing the options from the street vendors, she asked Jorah to buy her lemonade and a beef kabob cooked at the stall of a Qartheen immigrant. As she ate it on the street corner, she thought she’d never tasted such delicious food, and she laughed at Jorah as the juices from his own kabob ran into his beard. She was almost disappointed when it was time to leave. As they traveled back to the KLU campus, Daenerys wished that Robb had been able to accompany them, but she could scarcely imagine him being any more attentive than her knight had been.

\---

Now, she was nearly showing, and as it was becoming unavoidable, she had told her handmaids as well, both about the baby and about her marriage, though the news of their knowledge seemed to briefly panic Ser Jorah. “They are my dear friends as well, Ser, they’ll not tell a soul,” she’d told him, and while he’d nodded in agreement, the unease had not left his eyes. She’d determined that she would tell her father about the marriage and the baby after this weekend, but first, she wanted to relax one more time before facing his inevitable wrath. Besides, she imagined that once she got bigger, she wouldn’t be able to go riding until after the child was born. 

As she watched Robb walk away, she noticed Ser Jorah’s face suddenly darken as the four soldiers who would accompany them approached. She did not recognize any of them, and clearly neither did he. “Who sent you?” barked Ser Jorah. “Where are the men who usually join us.”

“They were given other duties today, m’Lord, they sent us instead,” stammered one of the privates who looked little more than a boy.

“I’m not a Lord,” Jorah snapped back. “Have you ever done this sort of duty before? How old are you?”

“No, m’Lord, but we can learn, we’ve just finished our basic training,” another private answered. “I’m Clydas, and these are Gendry, Lem, and Bowen.” None were older than seventeen and all were brand new to their posting at the Red Keep.

“Are you daft boy? I just told you I’m not a Lord. You may call me Ser,” Jorah responded with a sigh before muttering something under his breath. He’d gone to the radio and made some sort of call and was angry when it was over. “Very well then, load up,” he said to the boys.

Ser Jorah approached Daenerys and said, “I like this not, Princess. Are you sure you are up for the trip? Might it not wear you out?”

“Of course I’m up for it,” she replied with confusion. “Besides, this may be my last chance until after the baby is born. What’s the matter?”

“We have had the same handful of experienced corporals and sergeants every trip even just for the Kingswood, and suddenly, for this, an actual overnight trip further away, we have brand new privates? With the political situation being what it is, I like it not.”

“What is wrong with the political situation?” she asked, more confused than ever.

He gave her a curious look before responding, “It seems His Grace and Lord Robert have been more heated in their disagreements than usually. That’s why none of the Kingsguard are joining us, your father wants them all here. It’s probably nothing, but I’d prefer be safe.”

“If it’s probably nothing, I see no reason to worry. You are always so paranoid, Ser. I want to go,” she answered him.

He frowned but gave a nod. “I am probably being overcautious. Well, these guards are what we have. We shall make do. I’ll look after you. Shall we be on our way?” She nodded, and he helped her up into her seat next to Missi and followed after.

\---

The first day outside of Blackhaven had been glorious. It was chilly but not truly cold once the sun was fully up, and Daenerys was glad to once more be out in nature and in the saddle. Ser Jorah was good company as always, although he seemed somewhat on edge. She assumed it was because he kept having to repeat his instructions to the guards numerous times, and he’d nearly lost his temper on a few occasions. 

After a long day of riding, Daenerys, Missi, and Jorah, along with the two of the young guards, headed into Blackhaven since Daenerys wanted to look at some shops before supper. She noticed Ser Jorah had been rather distracted the past hour, and as a shopkeeper of a local art gallery invited her in saying it would be a great honor for the future Queen to see the artwork, he shooed the privates after her, pulled out his personal cell phone and asked permission to excuse himself, saying he needed to make a phone call. She thought it odd, for she’d never seen Jorah use his personal phone a single time, but she supposed he must have a life outside of her. Perhaps he had met a woman on one of his weekends off. She determined that she would ask him about it later if it didn’t make him too embarrassed. 

She and Missi admired the paintings and pottery as the shopkeeper chatted with them pleasantly, and Daenerys selected several items to purchase. She was just approaching the register when Ser Jorah suddenly reappeared at her side, his face looking strained, and he grabbed her elbow and said in an eerily calm voice, “Princess, we need to go.”

“Very well, let me just check out,” she responded with confusion.

“Now, Khaleesi! You too, Missandei,” he said more urgently.

And then time seemed to slow down and speed up all at once. She looked at the smiling shopkeeper, whose eyes suddenly shifted nervously between her and Ser Jorah, and she saw him start to reach beneath the cash register, and then she saw Ser Jorah’s fist connecting with his face, and she felt herself nearly jerked from her feet as he pulled her away, and she heard what must have been gunshots and Missandei’s scream and pottery shattering, and Ser Jorah, who never cursed, at least not in her presence, muttered “fuck” as he shoved her rather roughly around the corner and onto the ground.

And then he was crouched next to her, and she saw that blood ran down the left side of his face, and she didn’t see Missandei, but she still heard shots and screams and she was terrified.

Ser Jorah peaked around the corner and fired off a few rounds from his handgun, which she had not seen him draw, and someone returned fire, the wall around him shattering, as she screamed and he jerked back quickly. He’d said something into his radio, what exactly, she did not hear, and fired another shot before quickly looking her over. “Are you hurt, Khaleesi?” he asked, such concern in his face as he reached out for her cheek. His fingers came away with blood on it, and he looked briefly panicked before sighing with relief, saying, “Thank the Gods, it’s only mine.”

He quickly stripped off his jacket and then took off his kevlar vest. “Put this on,” he said, handing the vest to her. “It will be heavy, but you are a strong woman if I’ve ever met one.” After helping her into the vest, he put his coat back on, peaked around the corner again, whispered into his radio, and then turned to her again, taking her chin gently and forcing her to look at his eyes. “On my count, we are going to run towards the truck. Stay on my hip and run as fast as you can. If- if I fall, keep running. Do not stop for anything. Do you understand?”

“But Missi- “ she started. 

He cut her off. “I need to get you to safety first, then I promise, I will do everything I can for Missandei. On my count now.” And then he counted down aloud, both for her and into the radio, before hauling her to her feet and out a side door.

Then she was running as fast as she could weighed down by Ser Jorah’s vest but held up by his strong arm which pressed her tightly to his side, and she heard gunshots ring out, it seemed they were on all sides of her, and she heard Jorah grunt in pain and start to stumble but he stayed on his feet, and they reached the truck where one of the young privates who had accompanied them to the village was returning fire. Jorah practically threw her into the back of the truck and leapt in on top of her, nearly crushing her body with his own, and she felt the truck speed away. And she had never felt more terrified or helpless in her life.

\---

After an eternity, the truck stopped, and Jorah climbed off of her, apologizing and lifting her gently to her feet. She saw that they had joined up with the other trucks and the horse trailers, and she saw the servants and grooms were in a panic.

Ser Jorah ran to the truck that held much of the equipment, slinging the rifle that he’d left behind over his shoulder, and then grabbing the main radio which could connect him to King’s Landing. In addition to the blood which had grown sticky on his face, she saw he moved with a slight limp now and his pants were torn and bloody by his hip. He spoke urgently into the radio for several minutes, seemingly having difficulty getting a response, before finally stopping to listen, and he glanced at her briefly.

“Ser Jorah, we must get Missandei,” she began again, but he cut her off with a quick gesture, and continued his conversation on the radio, his face growing darker by the second.

When he hung up, he barked at the grooms to saddle the horses, all of them, and he told the privates to get on the ATVs. She saw only one of the two privates had returned from the town, and he was sobbing. Ser Jorah grabbed him roughly by the collar and shook him, growling, “Your friend is dead. There is nothing you can do for him, but you will do your duty to the the Princess now, is that understood?” And the private nodded but kept sobbing before heading towards the ATV to do as he was told.

Daenerys stood frozen as Ser Jorah began pulling supplies and their bags from the trucks and loading them onto the horses and ATVs. He ordered the servants to hand over their cell phones if they had them. One man protested, and Ser Jorah responded in a dangerous voice, “You’ll do as I say, or I’ll shoot you,” and the man obeyed. Ser Jorah next proceeded to smash the radios, all of them, and the phones, including his own his issued phone, and seemed to consider doing the same with his personal phone before simply removing the SIM card and putting it back in his pocket. He next ordered the truck drivers to split up, to head west and south as Daenerys continued to stand shocked, terrified, her heart racing. Then, he told Daenerys to get on her horse and she did not understand what was happening, but he was so insistent that she allowed him to give her a boost up. As the trucks pulled away, Ser Jorah led Deanerys, one of the grooms, and the three remaining soldiers, with four horses and three ATVs between them, at a gallop into the nearby mountains, and only then did he stop, ordering the privates to spread out and set up a perimeter.

He helped her down from her horse then, and look at her apologetically before finally explaining. “Khaleesi, I have hard news. There seems to have been some sort of coup. Your father is dead, shot in the back by Jaime Lannister. Fighting has broken out in King’s Landing. I do not know exactly who can be trusted, and our vehicles could have been tracked. I will keep you safe, but we need to stay hidden for a while until I can figure out who our friends are. In truth, I don’t trust the other guards, but they are the best we have for now.”

“My father- what of Irri and Doreah and Grey and Robb? How can this be? And what of Missi?” Daenerys nearly sobbed.

“I do not know, Princess. It’s fortunate that Robb isn’t in the capital right now, he’s probably safe, but I have no word of the others. And Missi- we need to find someplace to hide for now. Khaleesi, I’m sorry, but I cannot risk your own safety right now to try to save someone who is probably already dead.”

“I thought you cared about her, Ser,” she pleaded. 

He gave her a long look before finally answering, “I will find out more after dark.”

Daenerys felt so lost and in shock at that moment that all she could do was nod in agreement, trusting that Ser Jorah, her strong, brave bear, knew what was best and would protect her even as the world fell apart around her. As the hours passed though, she began to fume at her helplessness, and she felt her own inner dragon awaken.

\---

After dark, Ser Jorah snuck into Blackhaven to try to find out more news. It had clearly been a difficult decision for him, and he pulled her aside to say he did not trust any of the men with them and did not want to leave her alone with them. She insisted he must go, but he left his handgun with her nonetheless, reminding her how to use the weapon. 

When he returned, his face was even more grim. “Princess,” he said as he took her hands in his, “I am sorry. I have harder news than before. It seems the Lannisters and the Baratheons have conspired to rebel. Lord Robert has declared himself King. There is fighting throughout the Crownlands and in the Reach and even in the Riverlands. The Iron Islands have risen up as well, declaring themselves independent, though there is no word from the North or the Vale. I have heard that- forgive me for this news - your husband, Robb, is dead, along with his Lady mother and several other Northern nobles. They were killed by the Freys who have sided with the Lannisters.”

Daenerys felt her world spinning then, but told herself she must be strong, and she felt a calmness come over her at this terrible news.  _ I am the blood of the dragon,  _ she thought,  _ the last of my line. I will avenge my father and my husband. I will take back what is mine and rule, with fire and blood if necessary.  _

She stood then, wrapped in blankets in front of a small fire that Ser Jorah had built in a covered area to avoid detection and said in the most commanding voice she could manage, “Ser Jorah, have you news of Missandei?”

“Aye, she lives for now. They may be holding her for ransom, but she is under heavy guard,” said her knight. She pressed him for details, and he revealed that at least eight armed men appeared to be holding her in a barn near the edge of Blackhaven. He had caught a glimpse of Missandei by a lantern just inside the door.

Daenerys found herself becoming incensed with anger, and she argued with him that there must be a way to save Missi, but he stubbornly insisted that there was not, at least not if he was to keep her safe as well.

“I will not go any further without her. I cannot. I cannot lose her too, I cannot lose everyone I love. I will rescue her myself if you are too craven,” said Daenerys, her voice coming out so regal that she was surprised. Suddenly, a thought came to her, and she told Ser Jorah her plan before picking up the rifle that had belonged to the dead private and starting to walk towards the village.

“Princess-,” Ser Jorah began, grabbing her arm.

“Why do you call me that?” she asked. “My father was your king and my brother was to be after him. I am their heir, the last of House Targaryen. Whatever was to be my brother’s is now mine.”

“My- my queen,” Ser Jorah said, going to one knee. “My sword that was his is yours, Daenerys. And my heart as well, that never belonged to your brother. I vow to serve you, to obey you, to die for you if need be. But I beg you, though I am but a disgraced knight with little to offer you, hear me. Let her go, and Robb too. You shall not be alone, I promise you. I will keep you safe. I will see you to Dorne or to Essos if need be until we can gather allies to your cause. Please, do not needlessly put your life in danger. Think of your child- Robb’s child! I know what you intend to do. Do not, I beg you, do not.”

Despite her anger, Ser Jorah’s despair, his devotion to her, touched her. “I must,” she said as she fondly touched his bearded face, still sticky with blood, “You do not understand.”

“I understand that you loved Robb, and you love Missandei too,” Ser Jorah answered, his voice thick with despair. “I loved my Lady wife as well, but I did not die with her. You are my Queen, you have my sword and obedience, but do not ask me to stand aside. I will not watch you die on a suicide mission.”

She lifted him to his feet then, and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Ser Jorah Mormont, first and greatest of my knights, I will hold you to the oath you gave, and hope you never come to regret it. There is another way, if you have the courage.”

“Anything you ask of me, my Queen, if it will keep you safe, I will do,” he replied, his voice husky.

“I’d ask your help in saving my friend. My plan will work if you do as I say,” she said in a strong voice, although she felt uncertainty and fear. She’d dreamed of such a moment. It was almost a vision, she’d seen it so many times, but this was real life, and though she hid it well, she was scared. 

Ser Jorah nodded then and replied, “I will go prepare at once, Your Grace. But promise me that you do not intend to sacrifice yourself.”

“I promise,” she said.


	33. Regret - February 1288 AC

** _Regret - February 1288 AC_ **

_ Jorah had paced in the hallway outside of his chambers and cursed himself for not taking more precautions. He should have taken Sarra to Deepwood Motte a month ago and stayed with her there at his regimental quarters, with an abundance of maesters and field maesters at his beck and call and a finely equipped hospital just down the road, until her time came instead of allowing his pride to dictate that his son be born on Bear Island. He should have sent to the Citadel for a younger maester for the Island so that he wouldn’t have had to rely on the decrepit old man they had who was now ill with the flu. He should have pushed harder for improved electrical access to the Island so that they didn’t lose power nearly every storm, or invested in backup generators so that the midwives would not have had to rely on candles at this moment. Now, he could not even call the mainland for help, not that it could have come with the storm raging as it was. _

_ Sarra had been laboring for well over twelve hours by now, her cries echoing into the hallway, and Jorah felt fear in his heart. It was less than a month too soon, not nearly as early as in her past pregnancies, and in truth Jorah knew nothing of how these things were supposed to go, but from the women’s voices, he was certain that something was wrong. He’d tried to stay in the room with her to hold her hand and provide some sort of comfort, but Aunt Maege and Alysane had banished him after less than an hour, saying a birthing chamber was no place for a man, and he was getting in the way. Feeling helpless and useless, he’d ordered the captain of the most sturdy fishing boat on the Island to the Keep, bellowing at Tom to get him in the snowplow so that he’d have no excuse to disobey, and when at last the man had arrived, he’d said he had need of his boat and crew. The man had protested that it would be suicide to go out in such a storm with half the bay frozen over and visibility at nearly zero, and Jorah had cursed him as a craven and threatened to have him flogged for his disobedience until Dacey intervened, telling him that even if the boat could make it to the mainland by some miracle, they couldn’t have a laboring woman on board for such a voyage.  _

_ So he’d been left to pace and pray and remember. _

_ Jorah had truly tried to be a better husband since that dreadful night five years before when he’d struck his wife and then sworn to her that he would never dishonor her again. And he’d tried even more after he’d broken his marriage vows again nearly three years ago. To a small degree, he had succeeded. He had been nothing but gentle and kind to his wife when they were together, and he’d been completely faithful since. Though he’d felt that he’d never done enough,  _ could _ never do enough, it was true that by most accounts, he’d been a model husband and a model Lord these past three years.  _

_ He’d encouraged Sarra to get a college degree, a goal derailed by her first pregnancy and subsequent marriage, via correspondence work, and he’d proudly watched her collect her diploma the year before at the graduation ceremony for the University of Torrhen’s Square, a school that lacked the prestige of White Harbor where she was once to go, but which signified the fulfillment of a dream deferred for her. Together, they’d expanded schooling on Bear Island so that nearly every child attended for seven years, which was three years longer than any other seat in the North, and they hoped to add a secondary school soon. Lady Mormont taught literature and grammar to the older children, and Jorah was proud of it though some of the other Northern Lords had howled with laughter when they’d heard. “Lord Mormont would have his Lady wife toiling amongst his common folk! It’s important that his crofters and fishermen know the difference between an adjective and an adverb after all!” Jorah had done his best to ignore them. They wouldn’t understand that Sarra loved her work in the school. Nor would they understand that though she wasn't born there, Sarra had become a true Bear Island woman, and no Lady of Bear Island was afraid to get her hands dirty. _

_ Despite several years of particularly harsh winters, Bear Island had done well. The well trained Home Guard with the help of the small detachment of Army regulars on the Island had smashed the few Wilding attempts at raids with their Lord in command, which was more action than Jorah saw on patrols through the Wolfswood, and with Maege and Sarra’s help, Jorah had gotten a handle on the administrative duties of a Lord. He’d expanded roads, plumbing, and electrical access so that nearly every village home was connected, though those who lived in the more remote stretches of the Island were still without. Economically, the people were at least as well off as they ever had been under Lord Jeor. Jorah had thought that perhaps he was finally earning his people’s respect as their Lord, and it bothered him not that they perhaps loved their Lady more.  _

_ Jorah and Sarra had made a formidable team, and he felt a comfort with her that he’d felt with no one else, not even Dacy. They had never developed passion in their bed- it had remained a duty more than a joy- but they had developed an intimacy of sorts in chaste touches and gentle words, and Jorah had grown to love his wife, as a friend if not as a lover. And he knew that she loved him as well, even though a timidity and perhaps even a fear remained, for some wounds never heal, just as the guilt and shame of what he’d done had never left him. _

_ When she’d told him she was pregnant this time, he had been happy, but also felt a sense of foreboding. However, he’d doted on her to such a degree that Maege scoffed, “Do you remember me lying about all day when I was heavy with child? Have you not seen the Island women chopping wood, working in their fields, and hauling water right up to their time? Do you think women so weak, boy?” and even Sarra had commented, “I’m not made of glass, Jorah,” though she’d smiled and continued to indulge his efforts. Jorah had not been present for more than a few days of either of her previous pregnancies, and he’d thought that perhaps this time he could protect her from the stress and strain that may have plagued her in the past and perhaps provide some comfort for her pains, and with each passing month, they’d felt their hope grow. When the maester in Deepwood Motte had told them it would be a boy, Jorah had felt near giddy with excitement. He’d accompanied her to the appointment as he did nearly every appointment, and afterwards, he’d suggested they go for a slice of cake and hot chocolate from a nearby bakery. The smile of delight she’d given him at the suggestion remained with him for years to come. Jorah had been in awe and nearly moved to tears when he felt his son kick against his hand for the first time, having never experienced the feeling before, and he discovered a fondness in his heart for Sarra that he’d never known before. When she’d passed her sixth month, he’d let out a sigh of relief, now sure that he’d soon hold a healthy son in his arms, and he’d had a nursery prepared and asked Sarra if she’d thought of any names. But with the onset of this terrible winter storm had come another premature labor, and Jorah had felt helpless once again. And so he paced and waited. _

_ At last, Sarra’s cries had stopped, and Jorah had whirled, expecting to be fetched or to hear an infant cry, for he was still a hopeful fool. After waiting another few moments, hearing a commotion within, he’d gone through the door. Dacey had tried to stop him, but he’d snapped, “I will see my wife and son.” And he’d seen his son in the midwife’s hands, tiny and blue and unmoving, and he’d seen the blood, so much blood, and his wife lying pale on the bed, and his hand had covered his mouth to stifle a sob. “I wish to hold my son,” he’d managed to choke out, and Alysane, with tears in her eyes, had told him the truth, but he had not heard, and despite the midwife’s protests, he had taken the tiny body from her hands and stroked the lifeless cheeks and kissed his forehead and then he’d gone to his wife’s side.  _

_ “Jorah,” said Aunt Maege so softly that he could barely hear and in a kinder voice than she’d ever used with him in her life, “Give me the child. It will do Sarra no good to see, and she needs you now more than your son does.” _

_ So he’d allowed his son to be taken from his hands, knowing he would never hold him again, and he’d knelt by the side of the bed, in the same spot he’d knelt five years before when he’d begged her forgiveness, and taken his wife’s hands, which were nearly cold to the touch. She had murmured apologies to him for losing their son, for not giving him an heir, for not pleasing him more. “You’ve been good to me, my husband,” she’d said. And a tear had trickled down her cheek.  _

_ He’d stroked her hair and her cheek and whispered back so that only she could hear, “You’ve been so strong, Sarra, and so brave. You are a wonderful wife, sweetheart, more than I’ve deserved, and you’ve done nothing wrong at all. There’s nothing for you to apologize for. We can try again when you are stronger if you’d like.” As she weakened, he’d turned to the midwives and Aunt Maege and hissed in a hoarse voice, “Help her! Can’t you help her?”  _

_ Aunt Maege had ever so gently pulled him to his feet and told him softly but firmly, “Say your goodbyes now, boy, if you will.”  _

_ So he’d sat on the bed beside her, taking her hand, and whispered in her ear, “Sarra, sweetheart, I am sorry I was not a better husband. I am so sorry. Please forgive me.” And then after taking a moment to attempt to compose himself, he’d said words to his wife that he’d said far too infrequently over their nine years of marriage- “I love you.” He thought he felt her squeeze his hand lightly then, but she did not respond or speak again. _

_ When he was certain that she was gone, he’d growled at the others to leave him, and they’d obeyed, even Dacey, even Aunt Maege. He’d wanted to cry, but his father hadn’t cried when his mother died. His father had told him then that he mustn’t cry either, that he must be strong for he was a Mormont and was to be a soldier and a Lord someday. And if he couldn’t cry then as an eight year old boy, surely, he mustn’t now. And he’d promised Sarra he would be stronger, for her, he mustn’t dishonor the memory of that promise so soon. So he’d held back the tears and told himself over and over, “I must be strong, I must be strong, I must be strong,” as he held her hand a few moments longer before releasing it and pressing a kiss to her lips. Then he’d stood and put his fist through the wall.  _


	34. Chapter 19 - Jorah - March 1301 AC

**Chapter 19 - Jorah - March 1301 AC**

The mission to rescue Missandei had succeeded, despite the insanity of it, despite the impossible odds, despite the fact that Daenerys did not follow the plan they’d agreed to at all. Nonetheless, they had succeeded in saving her just as he succeeded in keeping their little band safe in the weeks to come.

The night they’d saved Missandei, Daenerys told him to pick the private he trusted most to come with them. He didn’t trust any of them, but in the end he’d picked the boy called Gendry, a sixteen year old from King’s Landing, for he’d seemed the most steady of the lot. He, Daenerys, and Gendry then snuck to the edge of the village under the cover of darkness, and he pointed out the barn where Missandei was being held. He’d counted nearly half a dozen armed men when he’d scouted out the position earlier, but most of them were armed with older, bolt action rifles or swords and ancient revolvers. He’d thought he’d convinced Daenerys of a slightly different plan which put more risk on him and slightly less risk on her. The odds of rescuing Missandei alive were slim, but Jorah thought that at least he might keep Daenerys alive if they caught the men by surprise. As Jorah showed Gendry where he should position himself and prepared for Daenerys to create a diversion from a distance so that he could slip in from the back as she’d told him to do, she suddenly stood, turned to face him, and said, “Do exactly as I tell you now, and remember your oath of obedience to me. You must subdue any guards on the outside only after I am taken, and then bar every door of the barn behind me. When Missandi is free, send her back to the camp with Gendry and wait. If I am your Queen, I trust you will do as I say.”

And then, before he could grab her, as a cry caught in his throat, she dropped the handgun she carried, walked into the open and yelled to the armed men, “I am Daenerys Targareyn, who you seek. If you send out my handmaid unharmed now, I will come to you with no resistance and discuss terms with you inside the barn.” Jorah could do nothing but helplessly watch from the shadows.

The men had clearly not expected this, but after a quick, whispered discussion, Missandei appeared at the door, and an armed man walked her towards Daenerys. When he reached her, he let Missandei go, and Daenerys walked with him willingly into the barn. All but two of the remaining men, perhaps out of curiosity, followed them inside. When Missandei reached him, Jorah quickly looked her over for signs of serious harm and sent Gendry with her back to the camp as Daenerys had commanded, and then, full of dread, he snuck close to the barn and killed one guard and knocked out and tied up the other at the door and barred the two entrances before trying to find a crack to peak through, clueless as to what Daenerys intended.

Suddenly, he saw smoke and then flame licking up the walls of the barn, and he felt a sob rise in his throat. As he heard screams from within, he made to unbar the nearest door, determined that he would do what he could to save Daenerys even if it meant death for him, but the flames spread far too quickly, and the heat drove him back, even as he yelled Daenerys’ name until he was hoarse, even as he cursed himself as a coward for his unwillingness to sacrifice himself for his Queen. 

He stayed a short distance away, watching the flames destroy the barn and every hope he had left in his sorry life, cursing, pacing, nearly pulling out his hair in despair, and he felt a tear on his cheek as well, although it may have been from the smoke. A few townspeople began to approach, but wary of the violence of earlier in the day, and surely wary of Jorah, with his rifle and his wild demeanor, they kept their distance and then faded away. While he feared more enemy might still be nearby, he vowed that at the very least, he would find her blackened bones when the fire died down and bury her. So he stood vigil as the flames licked the sky and the roof began to collapse and then he saw a vision which would stay with him for the rest of his days.

Obscured by the smoke and flame, at first he thought it was a trick of the shadows or his fool’s imagination or perhaps a vision from the seven hells where he was sure to go, but the outline of a form, that of a petite girl, soon became more clear. As he stared in astonishment, Daenerys walked through the smoke and flames and out of the barn where part of the wall had collapsed. She was covered in ash without a stitch of clothing on her, but she was very much alive, her skin uncharred. She stopped and looked at him as he stood with his mouth agape and eyes wide, and he forgot to breath for a moment. Jorah had stopped believing in the Gods years ago, but now before him stood a Goddess in the flesh, and he fell to his knees, and the old Dothraki vow of which he’d told her once, “Blood of my blood,” fell from his lips in a voice hoarse but full of utter devotion. 

  
  


When she finally spoke, she told him she was cold, and he’d stood and wrapped her in his coat. 

Then she’d ordered him to throw the remaining assassin, who lay bound and gagged, into the flames, saying he would die in like his comrades for his attempt on her life. Jorah protested, but she had snapped, “My family’s enemies will die in fire and blood. Now do as I say, you swore to obey me,” so he did as she said even as the man kicked against his restraints. The gag Jorah had fixed over his mouth did little to quite the would-be assassin’s screams as he burned.

Since her boots were gone, presumably burned away, he carried her all the way back to their camp in the mountains where she dressed in the spare clothes in her bag before he returned to the town cautiously to acquire a new coat and shoes for her as well as other supplies. First, he scavenged from the trucks left by the would-be assassins. Then, he pounded on the door of a local shopkeeper until he awoke, and the man’s grumbles fell silent when he was met with a rifle barrel as he opened the door. Jorah then convinced the man to give him boots and a coat that were slightly too large, and a number of other supplies in exchange for both money and the chance to live. “This isn’t enough money,” the man protested weakly. 

“Take it up with the Lannisters,” Jorah growled as he walked out. “This is their debt.” As he started back towards the camp, he reinserted the SIM card into his phone and made one final call before smashing the device and tossing it into the brush. 

They did not speak of what happened again nor attempt to explain it to Missi or their other companions, even as they’d given them astonished looks when he’d carried her naked but for his coat into the camp. 

\---

In the coming weeks, he kept the group hidden in the mountains and marshes, avoiding roads and open ground when at all possible, only sneaking into nearby villages at night in search of news and supplies. He saw a helicopter in the distance several times, but otherwise, they encountered no one. They had to abandon the ATVs after only a day, so Daenerys and Missi rode two of the horses, a third carried supplies, and the five men took turns on the last of them. Missandei suffered in the saddle at first, and even Daenerys was not used to the constant strain, and Jorah found himself lifting both of them down from their mounts at the end of each ride. The groom and all three of the privates were nearly useless at wilderness survival, all having been raised in cities, and Jorah cursed the decline in the army’s basic training under his breath as he took charge of navigation and scouting along with hunting, fishing, and foraging for anything edible. The boys could barely even build a fire. 

He’d thought at first to head deeper into Dorne, but the rumors he heard in the villages of riots and near uprisings in Sunspear deferred that plan, so he urged Daenerys to let him take her to Essos where she would be safe, but she refused. “I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Ser Jorah, I shall not flee my home. I must take back my father’s throne,” she declared. In truth, she deferred to him on most things, but sparks of fury and determination, which awed him slightly, rose up in her from time to time, and then she truly was a Queen, and he nothing more than her obedient servant.

Finally, only a week ago, Jorah heard word of the location of at least some portion of the Unsullied and scattered remains of a few Crownland regiments that seemed to be fighting the Lannisters and Baratheons. As he’d also recently conceded that they were not being actively sought, he suggested a plan to start heading north with the intention of reaching Stony Sept where the Unsullied were rumored to be fortified. With Daenerys’ approval, they began the long, slow journey, taking a slightly roundabout path to avoid towns and stopping and hiding whenever they saw people in the distance with frequent pauses for hunting and foraging as well. 

Now, as evening fell, they sheltered in the ruins of Summerhall. Daenerys had not been well, whether from the strain or from her pregnancy or from both, so he’d called for an early rest upon seeing the ruins of the old castle. The truth was, he was worried. While once he had prayed to the Gods he no longer believed in for home, now, every day since the attack, he had a new prayer. 

That day in Blackhaven, from the second he’d received the cryptic message that raised his suspicions to the possibility of assassins, he’d known, finally beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he loved her, that despite his best efforts to convince himself that it was lust, to guard his heart against feeling anything at all, she had somehow burrowed her way past his defenses into the deepest recesses of his heart and of his soul. And he hated himself for what he had done.  _ Don’t let me fail her again _ , he’d pray as he chose their route for the day.  _ Don’t let me fail her again _ , he’d plead as he gave her his coat against the night chill.  _ Don’t let me fail her again _ , he’d intone as he gave her his own portion of the wild game that he’d manage to catch or the carefully rationed granola bars or canned food so that she might eat more.  _ Don’t let me fail her again _ , he’d beg as he stood guard much of the night, not trusting the boys to do their jobs and stay awake.

He was searching the ruins of Summerhall for the most suitable shelter when Missandei called for him in a panic, and he ran to where he’d left the girls with the horses. His hip throbbed as he approached Daenerys, trying to hide his grimace and his limp. He’d told her it had only been a flesh wound, but in reality, it was deep. He had tried to stitch it up himself away from prying eyes, but he could not properly reach, and his constant movement tore out what he’d done so that it had not healed. When he reached them, Daenerys lay curled on the ground, Missandei at her side, and he was filled with dread and bitter memories when he saw blood soaking through her pants. 

Missi held Daenerys’ hand and wiped her forehead with a damp rag, and when Daenerys saw Jorah, she gave a cry. “It’s the baby, Jorah. Help me. Make it stop!”

“She has a fever,” said Missi frantically.

Jorah scooped Daenerys up in his arms, yelling instructions to the groom, and carried her to the most sheltered area that he could find. The groom rushed forward with the first aid kit and blankets, and Jorah sent him off to boil water from the nearby stream. Even as he did so, he knew that he had failed Daenerys again, as there was nothing he could do, at least not for the child. 

Jorah watched over Daenerys with Missandei the whole night and for several days and nights to come, doing what little he could to help all while he himself was sick with fear, but when the fourth evening came, although the child was gone, Daenerys was clear eyed and the fever had broken. He sent Missandei to get some sleep, and opened up a can of peaches, the last they had from the original supplies he’d gathered in Blackhaven. “Eat, my Queen. Regain your strength. Come back to us,” he said as he gently helped her sit up. She seemed too weak to lift her arms, so he found himself feeding her by hand, and he held the can while she drank the sweet syrup before giving her a long drink from his canteen. When she was done, he started to move away, but she leaned against his shoulder, so he lightly draped his arm over her and remained where he was.

“The boys say there are ghosts here,” Daenerys whispered suddenly. “The ghosts of my ancestors. Jenny’s ghosts.”

“There are ghosts everywhere,” Jorah responded softly his mind going far away. “We carry them with us wherever we go.”

“Tell me the names of your ghosts, Jorah. You know all of mine.”

He felt a sharp stab in his heart, and he thought to tell her everything. _Tell her, you coward. Confess. Tell her of Astapor, of Sarra, of Lynesse, of your crimes. Tell her of your spying, of your betrayal._ _Beg her forgiveness,_ whispered his heart. _No, you damned fool. You will lose her too, like all the rest_, he cursed to himself in reply. So he said only, “Her name was Lynesse.”

“Your wife? Lord Hightower’s daughter?” she asked.

“My second wife,” he said, wishing desperately to change the subject. 

Daenerys looked surprised at that. “I did not know you were twice married, Ser. How is it that I’ve known you all this time and didn’t know that? Tell me about them. How did you fall in love?”

Jorah sighed. “It’s a long story, Your Grace, and dull, I would not trouble you with it now.”

“I have nowhere to go. Please tell me, Jorah,” she nearly begged.

He paused then, unsure how to continue, before telling her very briefly of Sarra, leaving out the worst of it. “Our fathers were very keen on the match,” he said, not telling her why. “She was a plain girl, and we were not in love when we married, we barely knew each other in fact. There was no passion between us, and I was not a good husband, especially early on, but she was always kind and gentle, and a good companion. I came to love her in a way after a time. I lost her on the birthing bed, and my stillborn son with her, after nearly ten years of marriage.” She took his hand with a sad look. He supposed he had not choice but to continue on with his story of half truths, so with a sigh, he told her of falling in love with Lynesse. “I was the happiest man on earth for a few weeks after we wed.”

“Only a few weeks?” Daenerys asked in dismay.

“Aye, our passion remained, but she was used to a life of luxury in Oldtown, and I could not provide for her as she was accustomed to. Once we moved to Bear Island, she was miserable. Bear Island is a beautiful place with forests of gnarled oaks and towering pines, wild roses, and icy streams that run down the steep hills, but it is poor and remote with only a small village and scattered cabins. My keep likely seemed a hovel compared to what she knew in Oldtown, and the winters are truly terrible. Lynesse did not adjust well to life there, and in truth, we lacked a friendship to balance our passion. I loved her with all my heart, and it pained me to see her in her despair, so I tried to buy her happiness for a time- jewelry, electronics, clothes, fancy holidays- but nothing I did would keep her happy. After a time, after I drove my house and my island nearly to ruin, I tried to put an end to the frivolous spending, and we started to fight often. Well, you know the rest, I did things that I am ashamed to speak of, and then rather than stay and face justice, I fled with Lynesse to Lys. I told myself that nothing mattered but our love.” He stopped suddenly, his heart pounding, his vision blurred. 

Daenerys seemed hesitant to continue, but then she asked kindly, “What became of her? I’m told you are divorced.” He felt her give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“I joined a mercenary company on a short contract to try to support us, and she left me to be the mistress to a richer man while I was gone.” He took a deep breath and said, “You know, Sarra lost three children in pregnancy. I won’t pretend that the pain I felt as a father can even begin to match what you feel right now, but I do understand that you can love a child you’ve never met. You are still young though, my Queen.” He thought Daenerys looked tired, and so, so sad, and he regretted that he’d said anything at all.

“You must be tired, Your Grace. You should rest and regain your strength. Let me call Missandei, and I’ll check on the boys.” He truly did not want to leave her, not while she still leaned against him, not while he could imagine her in his full embrace, but he could not stay like this all night. It would be most improper, and surely she would not want it.

He started to rise then, but he felt her grab his arm. “Please stay, Jorah, just until I fall asleep,” she said. “It’s so cold.” So he sat back down, pulling the blanket more snuggly around her and propping himself against the stone wall, and she curled up against him, her head on his lap, and she pulled his arm up to rest against her back.

\---

He’d meant to watch over her until she fell asleep and then gently extract himself, but at some point, exhausted, he drifted off, and he dreamt of Lynesse and of Daenerys. When he opened his eyes, his neck and back were stiff, the sky was lightening, and for a second, he was unsure where he was. Then he saw Daenerys, her head still on his lap, and was mortified to realize that he was achingly hard, an obvious bulge in his pants just inches from her face. 

He moved away from her as quickly as he could, attempting to place a blanket as a substitute pillow so as not to disturb her. She opened her eyes as he rolled away, his hip screaming in protest, and he saw Missandei awakening nearby as well. He clambered to his feet, trying to keep his back to the girls without seeming disrespectful and said “My apologies, Your Grace, I did not mean to fall asleep. I must see to the others now.” And he began to limp away, his hip wound so stiff and painful he could not hide it.

“But you’ve left your weapons, Ser,” Daenerys called after him, but he’d waved his hand and continued on.

He thought to go relieve himself with his hand someplace, but there was no true privacy in the damned place and besides, the very thought of dishonoring Daenerys in such a way shamed him, so he stumbled to the nearby stream, passing a startled private, and after glancing back to make sure the girls were not watching, he stripped to the waist, knelt down, and drenched himself in the cold water.  _ Are you a man grown or some teenage boy, you fool? She would have been disgusted if she’d seen,  _ he growled to himself.

When he finally returned to collect his weapons, his hair was dripping wet and he grit his teeth to stop them from chattering from the cold and also to hide the pain of his hip. He saw Daenerys and Missandei were eating some scraps that were left from their supplies, and that one of the privates, Gendry he assumed, who was more competent and a quicker learner than the rest, had made them a fire. As he approached, Daenerys looked at him with concern before saying, “Ser Jorah, you have neglected your wound badly. I’d like to take a look at it.”

He muttered, “It’s nothing, Khaleesi, it’s just stiff this morning.”

She reached up and took his hand, and pulled him down beside her, and he knew the heat he felt rising in his face was not just from the flames. “I will tend to it,” she said firmly. “What on earth would we do if you became crippled? We wouldn’t survive a day! Besides, I need to rest a few days myself to recover, so it is the perfect time for you to heal as well.” 

“It’s a rather sensitive area, Your Grace, and is certainly not something for a lady to see.”

“Well, I don’t think any of the boys would be of much help, so that leaves Missi and I. I insist. Lie down right now, Ser, your Queen commands it.”

So he lay on his side, lowering his pants and boxer briefs just enough to reveal the wound, and he watched red faced as she cleaned his wound with Missi’s help. Then Daenerys stitched it closed with deft hands. His hip throbbed from the disinfectant and the needle stung, but her gentle ministrations and her soft touch caused his mind to consider a hundred what ifs, for she did not seem disgusted with what she saw of his body at all. 

They rested for several more days, and his hip healed. He was careful not to fall asleep beside his Queen again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for continuing to not fit in with the joyful, Christmas theme going on in the Joraleesi world.


	35. Loss - June 1292 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay. I took a holiday break from my own depressing story (and from my laptop in general).

** _Loss - June 1292 AC_ **

_ Jorah had collapsed exhausted into a kitchen chair and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose as Lynesse ranted at him. _

_ They had settled in Lys just a few months before, and thus far, nothing had gone well. Jorah had only been able to find them a small, sparsely furnished flat in a working class neighborhood with the money he had left after paying for their passage, though he’d done his best to assume Lynesse that it was only temporary. He’d found two jobs and spent most of his days working from well before dawn until noon on the docks and then worked five more hours as a security guard in an upscale shopping district afterward. Yet, the pay was low, and it wasn’t nearly enough to keep them, at least not anywhere near the standards that Lynesse expected and deserved. It hurt his heart to see Lynesse so miserable especially knowing that her misery came about because she’d followed him into exile, and he bought her little gifts from time to time in an attempt to make up for it- a sweet from a bakery, a single flower, a small trinket from one of the fancy shops that he guarded- trifling things in truth. From time to time, the gifts would earn him a small smile though just as often they brought tears of despair, and he’d sworn to himself and to her that he would do better.  _

_ This evening, Lynesse had insisted that they attend a dinner party at the home of a wealthy businessman in the city. She’d somehow gained an invitation through her Hightower connections. She’d bought herself a gown and rented Jorah a tuxedo with money they did not have, saying they must make connections in this new city if they were to rebuild their lives. After she’d finished adjusting his tie, she’d kissed him and said he looked like a Lord again, at long last, and gifted him with a smile. So Jorah, who had been up since 3am, had done his best to be pleasant for her sake as he stood at Lynesse’s side late into the night, she the life of the party, knowing that he would need to be up early again the next morning. At least he’d gotten a free meal out of it, he’d thought to himself, and he’d allowed himself a single whiskey of a vintage far superior to anything he’d tasted in his life.  _

_ Finally, they returned to their flat, Jorah utterly exhausted, and Lynesse speaking nonsense about needing to move to a bigger home in a nicer neighborhood so that they could host her new friends for a dinner of their own. _

_ His eyes still closed and thinking of his morning alarm just a few hours away, Jorah had finally snapped, “Lynesse, love, we don’t have the money. I am doing my best, but you’ve just set us back a few more months with this damned tux and your gown.” _

_ Suddenly, he’d felt a sharp blow to the side of his face and heard a crash. His eyes snapped open and he’d reached for his face in shock, his hand coming away bloodied, as he looked up at Lynesse, who was nearing hysterics, the remnants of a shattered plate, one of the few they owned, in her hand. “You promised me,” she’d cried. “You promised we would make a new life together, but you expect me to live like some common beggar. For how long, Jorah? I can’t live like this! I should have stayed in Westeros!” _

_ His heart froze at those words, for she was his life, all he had left. “Please, love, don’t cry,” he’d pleaded, his earlier anger instantly gone, “I will keep my promise. We shall have a new life, it’s just taking a little longer than I thought. I will find a better job, tomorrow if I can. I’m sorry I spoke ungently. Please forgive me.” He’d stood and reached for her, and she’d melted into his arms before quickly jumping back, shrieking that he’d get blood on her new gown.  _

_ Later, as he’d examined the jagged cut in the mirror, he’d thought he should get stitches, but he was too exhausted and did not want a maester’s bill on top of everything else, so he’d simply bandaged it up as best he could before going to bed. Lynesse had forgiven him enough to allow him to make love to her as he continued to murmur apologies, and he slept very briefly before his alarm went off an hour later.  _

_ The next day after work, he’d gone in search of something with better pay, and when he’d come upon a recruiter for the Golden Company and heard what they’d pay a man with his military experience, he’d signed up then and there. _

_ Lynesse had been hysterical when he’d told her what he’d done, but he’d promised it was just a six month contract and he’d be home soon. In truth, he did feel horrible about leaving her alone in this new city, but he saw no other way to make the money needed to truly start a new life. His signing bonus was enough to get her set up in a significantly nicer flat, and he thought what was left would still be enough for at least a few months’ worth of expenses. He’d also arranged for almost the entirety of each paycheck to be sent to her going forward. If she could rein in her spending, it would be enough money to put away a decent amount of savings and hold them over until he could find a better, more permanent job. He’d thought perhaps there’d be enough money for him to start a security firm once he finished his contract. “Love,” he’d said. “I’ve only ever been a soldier. I have no university degree or skills for these other high paying jobs. This is the best I can find to take care of you like you deserve for the short term. I promise, when I come back, I won’t leave you again.” She’d clung to him the next few nights, and while he tried to put on a brave face, he’d clung to her as well. She’d cried when he left two days later, and he left with a heavy heart but with the taste of her lips on his tongue. _

_ \--- _

_ He’d been given charge of a platoon within the company, and he saw considerable combat fighting Braavosi on the Rhoyne in a jungle war with an origin that he did not understand. The conditions and fighting were brutal but more straight forward than in Astapor because the enemy was more defined. The men in his platoon were competent soldiers, but cold blooded with little concern for honor or discipline. They kept their weapons clean but wore their uniforms and grew their hair and beards as they pleased. They laughed at him when he tried to order them to stop stripping the bodies of the dead of valuables, including wedding bands and gold teeth, and collecting body parts as trophies. Soon, he grew calloused to it, and he told himself it didn’t bother him as he watched his men cut off the fingers or ears of the men they’d killed, and he’d even been tempted to stoop to taking the rings of a few dead men himself. He was a sellsword now, and they had no honor after all, but in the end, he heard his father’s voice and couldn’t bring himself to do it.  _

_ He sweat and bled and killed men. He learned to care for his own wounds for there was not an abundance of field maesters amongst these mercenaries. He saw new horrors which joined the litany of his night terrors, but the thought of Lynesse kept him sane. He told himself he could endure anything for her. When they came to small towns and villages and the other men went off in search of women, he ignored it and wrote to her instead. Though he rarely got return letters, he’d assumed letters traveled slowly in this war zone. He’d even handed over exorbitant fees for an international calls on one occasion, although he’d been disappointed that he hadn’t caught her at home. He’d prayed often as well, and while he certainly prayed to be allowed to return to her, he found that in equal parts, his prayers became pleas for a return to Bear Island someday, somehow, and afterwards, he would scold himself for not prioritizing his wife. At last, his contract was up,and he’d returned to Lys with great anticipation that finally they could begin a new life even as his heart ached for his true home. _

_ \--- _

_ When he’d arrived at the flat that he’d set her up in, he found it occupied by another family. He sought out the landlord, but when he’d told him she’d moved out months ago and had left no forwarding address, Jorah had begun to panic. Next, he’d gone to the bank where he’d sent his paychecks, and while he did find an address, he also found the account was empty. He took a cab to the new address, and he’d been confused to find it was the mansion of the merchant whose dinner party they’d attended six months prior.  _

_ Standing ragged and dirty in his field fatigues and badly in need of a shave, he’d rung the bell, and a servant had met him at the gate. He’d asked after Lynesse, and the servant told him to wait. The merchant, Tregar Ormollen, had at last come down the walk to the gate and when he spoke, Jorah had not understood. He’d looked behind Tregar and seen Lynesse standing at the entranceway to the mansion, and he’d shouted to her, and he would have pushed passed Tregar, but he had several armed guards who kept him at bay. At last, Tregar had said, “You need to hear it from her mouth? Very well. Lynesse, come here, sweetling.” _

_ Jorah had stood with his world turning upside down as Lynesse approached but stopped several feet away. “Come on, love,” he’d said, reaching out his hand. “I’m home now. Let’s go.”  _

_ But Lynesse had taken Tregar’s hand and said, “You need to leave, Jorah. Leave now, while you still can.”  _

_ Tregar had added, “I supported Lynesse while you were gone and took on your debt for you. You owe me thousands, I could seize you to pay off your debt, but if you sign a divorce agreement and leave the city for good, I will let you go. If you refuse or ever return though, I swear I will have you sold into slavery to pay off your debts. There is always a need for strong laborers, and I hear in Meereen, they still have a fondness for fighting pits. You might even last a few fights there.” _

_ “But Lynesse,” Jorah had stammered, still not understanding, “Why are you doing this? What about our love? I love you, I will never leave you. I-.” _

_ Lynesse had cut him off coldly then. “I loved a Lord, a white knight, a war hero. You are none of those things, Jorah. Look at you! You are a poor excuse for a man, although you tricked me for a time with all of your promises. You are a pathetic, weak liar, incapable of making me happy. I’d rather be Tregar’s mistress than your wife. I thought maybe you’d die in your war and make this easier, but since you haven’t, sign the papers and leave unless you wish to be a slave. I don’t want to see your ugly face again.” Then she’d turned and walked back into the mansion. _

_ Jorah had felt the air leave his lungs and thought his heart might have stopped. He had been ready to fight Tregar, armed guards be damned, until she spoke those words, but now his will to fight, to live even, disappeared. He’d stood stunned for another moment, unable to form a coherent thought, but then he’d managed, “But where are my things from the flat?” He’d left a few photos of his family, a few of his books, the medal of his knighthood which he’d been unable to leave behind on Bear Island, his civilian clothes... _

_ “That bag you carry with you contains your things,” Tregar had replied in a bored voice The rest are mine as partial payment for your debts. Here are the papers. Sign and be gone, or I will have you seized. If you are still in this city after dawn tomorrow, you will leave it as a slave.” _

_ So Jorah had taken the offered pen, and he had signed the papers where he was told with a shaking hand, not being given a chance to read anything not that he wanted to, and then, though he thought he might collapse from a broken heart, he’d managed to walk away.  _

_ A single tear escaped his eye as he’d walked, but he stifled the rest. He was no longer a Lord, a true soldier, or even a Mormont except in name, but he was still a man, wasn’t he? _


	36. Chapter 20 - Daenerys May 1301 AC

**Chapter 20 - Daenerys May 1301 AC**

The journey to Stony Sept was long and hard, and when she thought on it later, she knew that the truth was they only survived because of Ser Jorah though at the time she was too preoccupied with the thought of being the Queen and the last Targaryen and a widow to give him the credit he deserved. He seemed to have the strength of ten men as he led them on his carefully plotted course, which was the wise path even as she became impatient with his caution. He scouted ahead or hunted while the others rested, and spent more than his fair share on foot when they moved. She rarely saw him sleep, as he typically took the first watch, and he was always awake and preparing the horses or skinning wild game or cleaning his weapons when she woke in the mornings. Though she never said a word, she knew that he took less than his fair share of their carefully rationed meals, ensuring that she, and Missi too, had a little bit extra to eat, and though he brushed off the cold, saying it was in his blood and did not bother him, she saw him shiver when he gave her his coat at night. 

As they moved further north, they started to see signs of the civil war that gripped the country, and this slowed their journey all the more as Ser Jorah insisted on proceeding with the utmost caution. From time to time, they even passed in the vicinity of common people who seemed to be on the move as war refugees. The common people, armed with shovels, pick axes, and occasionally swords, typically gave their rifled group a wide berth, and Ser Jorah had said it was a good thing they weren’t in Essos, where firearms were nearly as readily available as swords. Upon hearing that, Clydas, one of the privates, suggested they shake them down for food or supplies, but Daenerys had forbade it. Thus decided, Jorah approached the common people cautiously to get news, and it was a great shock when he rode back to her to tell her that Robert Baratheon was dead and apparently had been for some time. “They weren’t sure when he died,” he said, “But they say Robert’s son, Joffrey, is now declared King, but his Lannister grandfather and mother rule for him. Stannis and Renly Baratheon fight each other and their own nephew now, saying he is Cersi’s bastard and not the true heir, the Iron Islands still maintain their independence and-- and Ned Stark has been declared King in the North.”

That night, curled next to Missandei, Daenerys slept uneasily as she thought over this most recent news. She felt as if she had barely drifted off to sleep when Jorah shook her awake, saying, “My Queen, we need to move. Clydas is missing, either run off or captured.” She sat up hurriedly to see the the groom and Missandei quickly bundling up their supplies and the remaining two privates whispering a short distance away. 

Gendry stepped forward and spoke hesitantly, “He was afraid, Your Grace, and hungry. He thought he’d survive better on his own. He was no spy.” 

“Did you know he was going to run?” Jorah growled, pointing his rifle at the privates.

“No, m’Lord, I swear it, but we’d overheard his grumbling,” the boy replied. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Daenerys might have smiled, for despite Ser Jorah’s continual gruff corrections about his proper title, the boys continued to style him a Lord.

“Ser Jorah, lower your weapon,” Daenerys said, coming to a decision. Then addressing the remaining privates and the groom, she said, “All of you are risking your own lives to protect me though you’ve made no oaths to me. If you want no more part of this, if you wish to go, I will not stop you. You are free to go. But if you stay, you will be my people. So make your decisions now.” She felt herself holding her breath for a moment, and she only released it when all three boys said they would stay.

Still, Ser Jorah was not convinced that Clydas would not betray them, so they traveled on a new route with barely a rest for several days, doubling up on the horses at night to put more distance between themselves and their location on that night. When Daenerys was overcome with exhaustion, she leaned back against Ser Jorah’s broad chest, and exhaustion combined with the rhythm of the horse’s plodding and the steady rise and fall of Ser Jorah’s chest lulled her to sleep. She knew he held her firmly, so she had nothing to fear. Only near the end of the third day when the groom fell asleep in his own saddle and fell from his horse, did Ser Jorah call for a halt so that man and beast alike might rest. Afterwards, as there’d been no sight of anyone in pursuit, they continued again at their cautious pace. 

\---

One day, they came upon a tiny village, so small it was not on Ser Jorah’s map, and as they observed it from a bluff, they could see the village was under attack, houses and barns being torched and its citizens being beaten, killed, or raped. Ser Jorah said they must be brigands, as they wore no uniforms, and he saw swords but no rifles. 

“Jorah, make them stop,” Daenerys demanded.

“Khaleesi?” he questioned.

“You heard me,” she snapped.

Ser Jorah had given her a careful look before responding, “My Queen, you have a gentle heart, but this is how wars have always been. We cannot risk our own safety to save everybody.”

“I’ve told you before, I do not have a gentle heart, Ser,” she insisted in the most queenly voice she could manage. “What sort of queen am I if I cannot protect my own people. Are you, or are you not my sworn knight? Do as I command. Now!”

So Ser Jorah nodded, and with Gendry and the other private named Lem with him, he headed down the bluff. She watched as they easily overwhelmed a few of the brigands, but then one pulled a gun, and though she heard Ser Jorah shout a warning, Lem moved to cover too slowly and fell.

Jorah and Gendry took out the rest, killing or wounding several and sending the rest running, and only then did Ser Jorah signal for Daenerys to come down into the village with the groom and horses. Ser Jorah told her Lem was dead and one wounded brigand had been captured, and then he asked, “What do you want to do with the commoners, Your Grace?”

She told him they would care for them, and while he argued briefly that they did not have enough supplies for themselves, let alone for a whole village, he did as she commanded. She saw to several injured women and children herself, and her heart broke for them. Gendry and the groom directed burial of those killed, and though Ser Jorah said he needed to take stock of supplies, she saw that he cared for a few wounded and crying children as well.

Then, despite Jorah’s protests, Daenerys pulled off her hood and addressed the villagers, revealing herself to them. She spoke to them in words similar to what she had told the boys in her band after Clydas’ desertion, that they were all free to go or stay, but if they followed her and accepted her protection, they would be her people. She was relieved to see most said they would follow her. At last, she turned to Jorah, and telling him she would have law and order in her kingdom, she said that the wounded brigand would be executed for his crimes. She declared that he would be burned to death in keeping with Targaryen tradition, and she ordered Jorah to construct a pier. Jorah hesitated and gently pulled her aside.

“My Queen, your thirst for justice is admirable, but if you are to rule all of Westeros, you must show mercy as well. Your father’s enemies used his love of this method of execution against him. To be burned to death is a terribly painful way to die, and it is not looked upon kindly in most of Westeros. Might you not show these people that you are both just and merciful and give him a cleaner death?” 

She considered his words before responding, “Very well. He shall be shot. Or beheaded if you’d prefer.” For Jorah was forever going on about the need to preserve ammunition. She was slightly surprised that her rough, hard knight who didn’t flinch when it came to killing seemed to blanche at the idea of a beheading and said that a bullet would be kinder. 

Ser Jorah directed the man to be blindfolded and stood against a wall. “Who would you have shoot him, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Why, you, of course, my brave knight,” she replied. She saw a sad look pass through his eyes before he nodded, pronounced her judgement aloud, and shot the man in the head.

When the dead were buried, the wounded were bandaged, and supplies were gathered, the band, now swelled in number with several dozen villagers, continued on its way.

\---

That night, unable to get Ser Jorah’s words about her father out of her head, she called him to her tent, which he and several other men had constructed out of tarps that had been salvaged from the village. “Was my father truly the Mad King?” she asked. He hesitated, and in his discomfort, he looked hurriedly to his feet, so she explained, “If I am to rule the Seven Kingdoms, I must know the truth of my father’s rule so that I can be better.”

Ser Jorah cleared his throat and rubbed his chin nervously, but then he met her eyes and answered. “Your Grace, most of what I know is hearsay and second hand accounts. From what I’ve heard though, your father ruled with fear. He took great pleasure in burning his enemies alive for the smallest offenses. It was said that he was mad, and that the madness worsened over time. I never spoke a word to your father, nor he to me, but I daresay he was more like Viserys than you. If you wish to build the alliances you’ll need to rule the Seven Kingdoms, you must show the people that you are not your father.”

“So as my advisor, how do you think I should do that?” she asked. “How did you rule Bear Island?”

Jorah looked at the ground again as he answered, “I was not a good Lord, my Queen, except perhaps for a few years. I had no interest in the administrative duties and did not take advice or criticism well for much of my time as Lord. I think I would have benefited from a council that did not fear telling me no. Some may rule with fear, but I think it is better to be respected, to be loved even. I was only respected for a short stretch during my time as Lord because I was a fool for most of it, and my people knew it. But they could not tell me because they feared the consequences. You, Khaleesi, you are no fool. If you have good advisors around you and take their thoughts into consideration, but also consider the wants and needs of the least of your people, you will be respected. The governing systems in Braavos and Qohor are interesting ideas. There, men and women come to power more due to their abilities than their birthright. I believe you were born to rule, my Queen, but not everyone is. For too long, Westeros has been ruled by a never ending wheel of those with a birthright, Kings and Lords alike, seeking to better themselves and their own houses with little concern for the common people or even for the other great houses.”

“I will break that wheel, Jorah,” she declared, and she meant it with all her heart. “When I rule, the people will not be afraid to voice their needs and complaints. They will not be crushed beneath the great houses. They will have a voice in their own futures.”

  
  


\---

After days more of slow, endless travel Daenerys feared they would die, as they were exhausted and nearly out of food. It was too early in the year for foraging, and with the increased size of their party, the men could not hunt enough food to feed them. One morning, she found herself in a state of despair and unable to rise as it came time to start their daily journey.  _ Ser Jorah was right _ , she thought to herself.  _ We barely had enough for ourselves, how are we to support all of these people?  _ Ser Jorah came to her then, and knelt by her side. “I know the way is hard, my Queen, but we must continue,” he said in his deep, gentle voice, “We are nearing a town, and we will get more supplies then, but these are your people. They follow you, not me. You must be their strength.”

“As you are mine,” she replied. She knew he was eating even less than before, still ensuring that she and Missandei had a slightly larger portion, and his cheeks had grown gaunt beneath his thick beard, but he had yet to falter. She kissed him on the cheek then and rose to her feet, cheered to see him smile.  _ I must be strong for him as well _ , she told herself.  _ He is my strong, brave bear, but he worries so, and I am his Queen. _

\---

Finally, they neared Tumbletown, tired and weak from hunger. Ser Jorah took the groom with him, as both wore civilian clothes, and several of the men who’d joined them from the village, and hiding his handgun in his waistband, they went into the town that night. When they returned, they carried bags of crucial supplies- canned food, dry goods, medical supplies, and even some fresh fruit and meat- and her people feasted. They would camp for the night before continuing the next day. 

Later, after seeing to the guards, Jorah came to her tent, and when she called for him to enter, he knelt. “I’ve brought you a gift, my Queen,” he said with a slight smile. Then he revealed a chocolate bar. “And also these, I hope they fit,” he continued, and showed her some new, clean clothes, soap, and toothpaste. He’d also procured a short wave radio. 

While chocolate was her favorite sweet and she nearly wept in delight at the sight of it, she cherished the other supplies nearly as much. It was only after cleaning herself as best she could from a bucket with Missi’s help, changing into the new clothes, and brushing her teeth did she realize how truly filthy she had become. She returned to Jorah and thanked him with all her heart, and her spirits raised by this newfound hope, she joked, “I think I am fresh and clean enough to kiss you!” He reddened at the comment and mumbled that he was still filthy, but that he was happy that she was pleased. She insisted that he have a small corner of the chocolate bar then as they briefly tried to pick up radio signals, before wishing him a good night.

\--- 

Several nights later, Daenerys woke to a cry from Ser Jorah. The men had erected her tent, which she shared with Missendei, and Jorah, whom she so rarely saw sleep, lay just outside the entrance, his rifle and sword within easy reach. She was confused for a moment, thinking he was awake, and then she realized he must have called out in his sleep. She moved closer and saw he was bathed in sweat, despite the coolness of the night, and he muttered incoherently, and began to thrash about. She understood a few words, she thought she heard “run” and “Sarra” and “forgive me” and possibly even her own name. 

She shook him gently and he lunged for his rifle and then his blue eyes opened wide with terror and met hers and he whispered in a desperate voice, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me, Khaleesi, please forgive me.” And then he seemed to wake fully and he sat up and looked away. “My apologizes, Your Grace, I- I did not mean to wake you,” he said in a far gruffer voice. He glanced at her, and she thought he looked nervous as he ran his hand over his now thick beard, and continued, “I have the bad habit of speaking nonsense in my sleep at times, jumbled bits that make no sense to one awake. I apologize if I startled you. Please, go back to sleep. I need to go check the perimeter now.” Then he got up stiffly and walked quickly away.

She was not sure when he slept during the rest of the journey to Stony Sept, aside from the quick naps he caught when they stopped to rest briefly around midday each day, because every time she woke in the nights to come, she saw him either pacing outside her tent, or sitting at the entrance, eyes open and rifle in hand, staring into the darkness.

\---

In early May, as they neared Stony Sept, the weather turned unseasonably warm. Missandei and several of the other women had helped her wash herself and her clothes with buckets of water after a long sweaty day, and Daenerys rested in a make shift skirt and a bra as her friend brushed her hair. She’d began to doubt herself again, wondering if the men they would meet at Stony Sept would truly follow her as their Queen and if it was indeed wise to even continue towards that destination, so she asked Missandei to fetch Ser Jorah to her tent then and leave them to talk. When he entered with a bow, she thought he looked startled and perhaps his eyes took in her near naked body before he forced them to meet her own. She thought briefly that perhaps she should have redressed fully before receiving him, but she was enjoying the coolness, and besides, he was her dearest friend, surely he didn’t mind her lack of formality. He looked embarrassed, as if he had revealed an inner secret, but she pushed the thought aside to express some of her fears to him, knowing that he would reassure her. He did just that, but she became annoyed by his slightly patronizing tone, and she snapped at him.

“I only want-” he began defensively.

“What do you want?” she interrupted him, in a far angrier voice than she intended.

“To see you on the Iron Throne,” he replied after a brief pause.

“Why?” she demanded to know, for suddenly she was curious as to why this disgraced Northman followed her with such devotion when his own kinsmen declared a Stark their King, when Jorah himself must have sided with his liege Lord against the Targaryen dynasty during Robert’s Revolution. She had been waited on hand and foot all of her life, but only now, facing true hardship with no way to pay or reward her followers did she think to question why someone would actually want to serve her, why someone would want to vow to serve her, obey her, and die for her if need be.

“You have a birthright,” he declared. “But you have more than that. You may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared. You would be loved. You are someone who can and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world. There are times when I look at you, and I still can’t believe you are real.” He spoke with such awe in his voice, his blue eyes alight, that she could not help but believe him, but his adoration scared her slightly. She thought he might have felt the same way, for suddenly he looked down as if he had revealed too much. 

“You are right, of course. We will continue with the plan,” she said with a smile to put him at ease as she got to her feet, intending to be a good leader and check on her weary band of followers before she retired to sleep.

Perhaps he took her smile in the wrong way, for he reached out then and took her gently by the shoulder, his calloused fingers brushing against her collarbone and the back of her neck and drew her near to him, almost into an embrace and her eyes met his as his gaze flickered from her chest to her lips back to her eyes. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face and smell his familiar and distinctly masculine scent and a heat rose within her as well. 

_ He should not be doing this,  _ she thought through the haze of her mind.  _ I should not be allowing this _ . “Ser Jorah, this is not fitting- I am your Queen,” she blurted.

“Aye,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “my Queen, and the bravest, sweetest, and most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The men at Stony Sept would be fools not to follow you, and all of Westeros with them. But when you have gained the throne, many men will flock to you and flatter you and professor their loyalty to you though they have self serving motives. I tell you, Daenerys, there is no man in all the world who will be half so true to you as me.”

She felt a shiver at his words and from his continued touch, and part of her wanted to kiss him, to embrace him, for it would all be so much simpler, but she was a Queen, and he was her servant, and her handsome, young, highborn husband whom she loved had only recently been slain, and it could not be. So she swallowed and snapped, “You are too familiar, Ser.” 

  
He released her instantly and jumped back as if burned, his face red, and he bowed his head and looked at his feet. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” he murmured, backing away even further. “I don’t know what came over me. With your permission, I’ll take my leave and wish you sweet dreams.” As she dismissed him, she realized that he had said and done far more than he intended, and she also realized for the first time what that look in his eyes that she saw from time to time, that she’d seen even in his earliest months in her service, really was.  _ He wants me. I am his Queen, but he loves me not as a knight but as a man loves a woman. _ And she did not know what to think.


	37. Chapter 21 - Jorah - May 1301

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I’ve been spelling Stoney Sept wrong… whoops! I’m going to say that Stony Sept is a modern spelling of the town...

**Chapter 21 - Jorah - May 1301**

Jorah felt his body begin to relax for the first time in months as he forced a few more bites of food into his mouth and gave a contented sigh. Grey nearly grinned across from him and asked if he’d like a fourth helping. “No, thank you, I think I’m truly full now,” Jorah replied. “And I best go shower and find some new clothes before the Queen sees me again. Now that she’s back in civilization, she won’t be able to stand the smell of me. I don’t suppose you’d have an extra pair of uniform pants in my size, or really just any clean clothes? Have no fear, I know I’m no Unsullied. I’ll find a different shirt and won’t wear the unit patch.”

“I’ll take a look,” replied the young man. “You’re being set up in the quarters next to the Queen. There’s a shower and soap for you there. And a trimmer,” he added with a glance at Jorah’s hair. So Jorah excused himself and set off for his new room.

In the first days after she’d scolded him for his forwardness in her tent, she had barely spoken to him nor met his eyes when not necessary and kept a slight distance, and he’d been careful to maintain a strict formality with her, mortified by what he had done. He’d cursed himself for speaking so foolishly and for allowing his heart to misread the situation so horribly. He’d thought... but he’d thought so wrong, and not for the first time in his life. He was a fool, his father had always said, too prone to thinking life was a romantic fairy tale, and this time, his heart- which had let him think his father might be proud of him, that war might make him a hero, that he might be a good husband to Sarra and father to their child, that Lynesse truly loved him- had let him think that Daenerys would return his affection, but he’d been wrong again. And while his heart ached from her rejection, he feared also that he’d destroyed their friendship which he valued so much.

It was a great relief when several days ago, she’d seemed to return to normal with him, speaking casually and even warmly, inviting him to eat next to her, leaning against him by the fire when she grew tired. They’d at long last approached Stony Sept this morning, by which time Daenerys was acting as if their encounter in the tent had never happened. Still, Jorah had no intention of repeating his last mistake and maintained a formality of his own. She was the Queen now, he reminded himself, and it was his duty to remember that lest he treat her like the naive princess she had once been, or worse yet that he treat her as a woman who might find him worthy of her love. 

Jorah had not heard any direct news of the Unsullied unit’s whereabouts in some time, so they approached with caution. He’d scouted ahead with Gendry, who’d truly earned his trust and respect as a soldier in these past months, and seen fortified trenches and sandbags surrounding the city, but he could not make out who the soldiers were. At last, he determined to send Gendry ahead with a white flag. He was reluctant to lose the boy, but he still did not fully trust the others. “Approach carefully,” he warned. “With your beard and tattered clothes, you look more Wildling than Westerosi soldier.”

Gendry had returned with a platoon of Unsullied, led by Grey himself, and when they entered into the city, he saw nearly the entire pre-war strength of the Unsullied present as well as a smattering of men from a few Crownland regiments. As soon as they passed through the gates of the holdfast, Irri rushed forward and hugged Daenerys and Missi. To his immense surprise, she hugged him too, saying, “Jorah the Andal, thank the Gods you are alive!”

“And what has become of Doreah?” Daenerys asked.

“She- she chose to stay behind, Your Grace,” Irri said soberly.

“She was a traitor,” Grey muttered under his breath. 

Daenerys’ reaction to this news was barely perceptible to Jorah’s practiced eye before she smiled and said, “Well, I am glad to know that my loyal friends are safe.” 

They were fed and then Daenerys was told the largest chambers, those that had formerly belonged to Lord Jaremy Smallwood, a cousin of the Smallwoods of Acorn Hill. The Lord of Stony Sept had given up his quarters for the Queen, though whether he did so willingly or due to the presence of the brigade of Unsullied was uncertain. 

After a long shower, Jorah trimmed his beard and his hair, and then put on clean, fresh clothes which Grey had found for him. He felt exhausted, as the adrenaline that had kept him going for so long had finally ebbed, but there was much to do to truly establish Daenerys as Queen before he could sleep. 

He met Daenerys in the corridor. She looked regal and aglow with her hair brushed and clean, her skin scrubbed, and fresh gown complimenting her figure. “My bear,” she exclaimed with delight as she squeezed his arm, “You look a whole new man!” and Jorah’s hurt skipped a beat despite his best efforts. As he escorted her to the briefing room, he told her what he knew of the men who would be joining them. Grey and several other lower ranking officers of the Unsullied would be joining them, and they had Jorah’s trust. Additionally, they would be joined by a smattering of Westerosi nobles who had apparently fled King’s Landing with the Unsullied, including Lord Lyman Darry, a young air force officer, and Lord Aurane Rykker, a naval officer, along with Lord Smallwood. Jorah had never met Lords Rykker or Smallwood before, although his opinion of Lordy Darry was low as he’d clearly looked down on Jorah during their few encounters. He also did not fully trust any of these highborn men. Did they support truly Daenerys’ claim, or had they simply found themselves caught up with the Unsullied during the initial coup? He strongly suspected the latter. He warned Daenerys of his suspicions just before they entered the room. 

Grey began the briefing. On the day when King Aerys had been killed, chaos had broken out in King’s Landing and throughout much of Westeros. The army had deteriorated along regional lines, with soldiers not from their regiments’ regions deserting for home or being arrested or killed. That night, the new government had taken over radio and television stations and much of the internet and put out an announcement that the King was dead and his heir, Daenrerys, as well. While they put out pictures and video of Aerys’ body, they provided no evidence of Daenerys’ demise, and in the days to come were unable to present her body. The official word was that she had burned to death and that someone loyal to her had buried her bones at an undisclosed location and then fled to Essos. The Unsullied and a smattering of others in the military did not take their word for it and retreated from the capital, saying they would only surrender once there was proof of death. The rest of the Crownland units, including those in the Kingsguard who still lived, bent the knee to Robert Baratheon and then to Joffrey soon thereafter. 

The Lannisters controlled King’s Landing and the majority of Westeros outside of the North although fighting still raged in Dorne, Stannis held Dragonstone, and the allegiances of House Hightower and House Tyrell were as yet uncertain. Dorne itself had been decimated in the fighting, which convinced Jorah that it had in fact been wise to travel north instead of deeper into Dorne, but Lord Rykker was hopeful that the Dornish would prevail in their territory and then join the fight in the rest of the realm. The Riverlands were in chaos as well after the Frey’s had seized Riverrun from the Tullys, and the Iron Islands had attempted to conquer parts of the mainland. The Vale had declared a strict neutrality, and the North held its borders but advanced no further, in part because the Free States had taken advantage of the chaos to increase its own aggression at the Wall. 

“What of the air force and navy?” Jorah inquired.

Lord Rykker filled them in. “Your Grace,” he said, “The air force essentially destroyed itself in the first few days of fighting as squadrons attacked each other. There are still jets and even a few bombers, but not enough for any one side to gain superiority. The same was essentially true of the navy, although Lord Tully still has a large number of river patrol boats as he attempts to take back Riverrun, and the Reach and of course, the Iron Islands, have a number of ships loyal to them. There may be more that put out to sea at the start of the coup, but I have not heard from them.”

Lord Darry continued and told them that it appeared that Lord Robert had been killed within the first week of the coup and likely had not intended much of what happened at all. He certainly would not have intended for Robb Stark to become a casualty. Tyrion Lannister had been home in Casterly Rock when the coup began. “We have had no word from him, Your Grace, but we must assume he is a traitor,” finished Grey. 

After some debate, Daenerys decided to stay in Stony Sept for the time being but all agreed that they must spread the word of Daenerys safety in the hopes that the news would bring about a renewed loyalty though this would surely bring the war to Stony Sept, which had thus far been ignored as the Unsullied stayed in a defensive position. Jorah himself felt confident that Dorne would rally to the cause and hoped the Hightowers and Tyrells might be convinced as well and only agreed to reveal Daenerys’ position for this reason. 

As the meeting drew to a close, Jorah saw a spark in Daenerys’ eyes. “Turgo Nudo,” she said, addressing Grey by his full name. “Your comrades have selected you their leader, and I now declare you general of the Unsullied. Assemble all of the Unsullied not on guard duty. I will address them,” she ordered even as Darry and Smalwood muttered in shock, for the general and other top officers of the Unsullied had always been nobleborn men from the Seven Kingdoms and not truly Unsullied at all. These men had stayed behind in King’s Landing though, and it was only the true Unsullied who remained in Stony Sept. 

As the regiments assembled in perfect formation, Jorah eyed the sky warily, for though Lord Rykker claimed there was no air threat, Jorah could not help but worry about the damage a single bomber could do to the neatly assembled men. Still, he couldn’t help but feel in awe of the force before him, the greatest infantry unit on earth it was said, for he’d never seen them fully assembled, even as he had no clue what Daenerys intended.

Jorah and the Lords gathered behind Daenerys as she stepped up to a microphone to address the thousands of men. “Unsullied, for too long, you and those from your home islands have been treated as a servant class, forced to bear the burden of Westerosi rule without the rights of citizens, forced to pay a higher price than any other soldiers to earn that citizenship, and yet even then respected as soldiers but not as men. Yet, when the realm is most in need of brave and honorable men, it is you who have stayed true to your oaths, you who have stayed loyal to your sovereign.”

Jorah saw Rykker, Smallwood, and Darry fidgeting beside him. This was the way it was, the way it had always been. Those from Naath and the Summer Isles were a servant class to their colonial masters, even those few who were able to earn their citizenship through fifteen years of hard service, and the Lords beside him knew Daenerys was treading into revolutionary territory. Yet, when Darry began to step forward, as if to interrupt the speech, Jorah grabbed him firmly and held him in place.  _ She said she would break the wheel. Let it begin here _ , he thought as she continued.

“You have been servants your whole lives, looked down upon, scorned, seen as lessers to the people of Westeros. Today, I grant full citizenship, full freedom, to you and to all of the people of your islands,” she shouted. “Any man who wishes to leave may leave, and no harm will come to him. I give you my word. But if you stay, I ask you to fight for me as free man, to help me take back Westoros, to help me win back the land that is your country as well as mine. Will you fight for me?” 

For a moment, nobody moved, nobody made a sound, but then the Unsullied roared.

After the Unsullied had been dismissed and all of the necessary videos and recordings to prove Daenerys’ continued existence had been shot, he joined Daenerys and the other high ranking men and women for dinner. She motioned for him to join her, the others not seeing, so when he moved to take the seat, Lord Darry protested. “I know you’ve been out in the wild for months, Mormont,” he sneered, “But you seem to have forgotten yourself. Your place is standing behind the Queen. Your betters will sit beside her.” 

Jorah felt himself redden in anger and embarrassment, but Daenerys, who had overheard the comment, spoke before he could respond. “Ser Jorah is my most trusted advisor, my most valued general, and my dearest friend. He will sit beside me.” And so he did, even as he wanted to be more.

When the meal was over and they made to retire for bed, Grey stopped him. “Missendai told me what you did for her. I thank you. I will not forget. You have treated her like a Lady. You have certainly been kinder and more chivalrous to her than any nobleborn man that I know, even sacrificing your own comfort to do so. You are a good man, Ser Jorah, and I apologize for misjudging you when we first met.”

“I only did what any knight is sworn to do. There is no need to thank me or to apologize,” he replied.  _ And if you knew me, if you knew the things I’ve done, if you knew the women I’ve hurt, you’d not think me a good man _ , came a whisper from a dark corner of his mind. 

As he left Grey and escorted Daenerys to her chambers, she took his arm. “If you’re to be my highest ranking advisor, Ser, and my general, we must get you some proper attire, something a bit more grand.”

“This is practical for the job, Khaleesi. Even now, your message is being sent out, and soon, we’ll be in the thick of the war. That’s not the time for grand uniforms. Besides, I’m not officially in the army anymore.”

“You can wear something practical that also stresses your position. I won’t have any more like Lord Darry confusing your position for that of a common bodyguard. The nerve of him! And you swore an oath to me. I see fit for you to serve me as my general, so that means you  _ are _ in the army again. 

“As my Queen commands. I am honored by your trust,” he replied with a slight bow. A general! He’d thought she was speaking figuratively at dinner. He had never commanded more than a company and hadn’t the slightest clue how to be a general, but he felt himself swell with pride nonetheless. 

“You also must take a squire for yourself now that we are back in civilization. And now that you are a general.”

“I can take care of myself, my Queen,” he said gruffly. “I have no need for a squire.”

“I don’t doubt that you  _ can _ take care of yourself, but you will have more pressing issues now, such as commanding my army. When I take back the Seven Kingdoms, you will have your full pardon and your Lordship again, and higher titles still. Plenty of high born boys would be honored to serve someone like you, to train under you, and surely you could allow someone else to clean your weapons and polish your boots from time to time. Surely, you had a squire when you were Lord of Bear Island, did you not?” she pressed. 

“That isn’t the way of Bear Island, Khaleesi. There was a stable boy, a common boy from the village that served in that capacity when occasion called for it. But I had little need for one,” he replied.

“But you did have one, and you will have greater holdings than Bear Island soon. And what became of the boy? Did you train him to be a great warrior?” she asked in a teasing tone.

“I don’t know what became of him. He was still young when I left,” he answered, trying to hide the wistfulness in his voice for he had been fond of the boy. “But I only used him as a squire then because my Lady wife insisted I have someone serve in the position. I’ve taken care of myself just fine ever since and with your permission, I would like to continue in that manner.”

“Very well, my stubborn bear,” she said. “But once we’re back in the Red Keep, you must take on some help. It will be a way to keep some noble families happy if you take on their sons, and you will be a very good example for them.”

“As you say, my Queen,” he said with a bow, for they had reached her door, which was guarded by two Unsullied, and with one last smile, she bid him tonight.

Finally alone in his room, he collapsed onto the soft bed, hoping he might at last sleep. It had been months since he’d slept on a mattress, since there had been other guards to look after Daenerys besides himself, and he was truly exhausted. However, his mind dwelt on Daenerys, imagining her smile, imagining her beside him, and despite his determination to not dishonor her, alone in the privacy of his own room at last, he gave in to a desire that had been bottled up for months the only way he could. When he was done, he felt shame burning on his face, and it took him a long time before he finally fell into a fitful sleep. He had kept her safe thus far, but he knew war would be upon them soon. If his experience had taught him anything, it was that war was unpredictable and unmercifully cruel.


	38. Help - February 1284 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the long delay. My only excuse is that life happens...
> 
> This chapter takes place several months after the chapter entitled "Lord" when Jorah argues with Lord Glover, and over a year before the chapter entitled "Again."

** _Help - February 1284 AC_ **

_ It was good to be home. Jorah had arrived back on Bear Island only that morning after spending the last month and a half away after Ned Stark had called the Banners, scouting, training, and preparing for a fight that never truly came. The night before he’d left for Winterfell, he’d been shocked when Sarra had burst into tears as she’d watched him pack. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart, and you as well,” he’d said to try to comfort her, thinking she feared war coming to the Island when he was away. “Dacey and Aunt Maege will look after you, the homeguard will keep you safe, if that’s what you fear. King Aerys won’t dare come this far north, nor would he bother with Bear Island if he did, and the women of the island have been throwing back Wildlings and Greyjoys alike for generations. I’m leaving plenty of men behind too.” _

_ “But must you go, Jorah? You aren’t even recovered from your last war yet! Couldn’t you send someone else to lead the men?” _

_ “What?” he’d replied in confusion. “I’m perfectly healthy, Sarra, as healthy as I’ve ever been. All that’s left are scars. What sort of man would I be if I sent others to do my fighting? What sort of Lord?” _

_ “You aren’t healthy though. You still have your dreams, and even in the daytime- What will happen if you have one of your…” she’d faded off, and Jorah had felt an odd comfort in the fact that she too didn’t know what to call his episodes, his moments of panic or rage when he froze and forgot where he was. _

_ “They’re just dreams. Dreams have never hurt anyone. And in the daytime, well, I always do fine in training. I’ve never frozen once. And this isn’t even a war yet. It’s just a precaution, and perhaps the talks will work after all. But I must go. It is my duty to go. I could never look any of the men of the Island in the face again if I didn’t, never mind my father. I’ll be home soon. You have nothing to fear.”  _

_ In truth, though he had dreaded the thought of combat, a part of him was eager for the opportunity. He could get lost in a book for hours, sitting in an easy chair or splayed out on the grass or under a tree when weather allowed, but aside from reading, Jorah was an active man. He loved to ride around Bear Island, preferably on his horse, although he took the truck when it was exceptionally cold, and he’d throw in his muscle to help clear a path of a fallen tree or to fix fences around the small village pasture or to help with the repair of an engine on a truck or boat. He’d chat with the common men, and with some of the common women, although others he avoided given his history, and he’d hear about their lives and their concerns in a far more informal setting than his official petitioner hours which Aunt Maege told him he must hold at least once a week. He relished training the Bear Island guard and going on military maneuvers nearly as much as he hated the mundane administrative work that it took to rule the island. He abhorred sitting at a desk and dealing with the tasks of budgeting and accounting and making decisions on purchasing and trade. He’d told Aunt Maege that he trusted her to handle those duties in the hopes that she would continue as she had when he’d been in the Reach, but she had insisted that he take an active role and more and more often, he’d make excuses to head outdoors, even in the dead of winter, rather than sit at his desk and pore over the numbers and invoices and contracts. And then Lord Stark had called the Banners and offered a respite from the boredom, and he’d thought that he’d have a chance to once again put his training to good use and perhaps to prove at last to his father and to all the other nobility of the North that he was a good soldier, for this time, he would fight for the North. _

_ Despite his relative youth, he had more combat experience than all but a few of the older Lords who were of his father’s age and more urban combat experience than the lot of them, and he’d been honored and more than a little bit pleased that Ned Stark had placed a great deal of confidence in him as they made their battle plans. In the end, there’d been days of marching and scouting and training in the bitter cold and mud, and a few skirmishes, though Jorah had not been involved in them, and then the diplomats had come through. The most disturbing thing that Jorah witnessed during his whole time away was the beheading of a deserter. He was part of the Tallhart homeguard, a mechanic by trade, who’d tried to return home to witness the birth of his daughter. Jorah had felt slightly sorry for the man who’d begged for mercy and pissed himself as he knelt at the block, but he’d stood stonefaced as he’d watched Lord Stark, who’d passed the judgement, swing the sword. With an uneasy peace returned, Lord Stark had thanked his bannermen and sent them home, so Jorah returned to Bear Island with Lord Stark’s respect if not that of his father.  _

_ On this, his first night home, he’d sat in the den with his family by a roaring fire, sipping one of his carefully rationed ales, for he allowed himself no more than two in any given day. Sarra sat beside him, and he’d just turned on the television to watch a rugby match now that the season had resumed with the peace when the housekeeper had come in. “Excuse me, m’Lord, there is a woman from the village at the kitchen door who asks a word with you. I told her she could speak with you at your next petitioner hour or when you next went to the village, but she begged me ask. Shall I send her away?”  _

_ “Did she say what she wanted?” Jorah had asked, annoyed to be interrupted during his first chance to relax in several months. _

_ “She did not say, only that she begged a word with you, m’Lord. Her name is Nora, she asked me to tell you.” Jorah had thought he heard slight accusation in the housekeeper’s voice, though perhaps it was his imagination. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Dacey had raised an eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Alysane.  _

_ “I’ll see her,” Jorah had said too quickly, rising, alarm and guilt building in his chest. _

_ “Shall I bring her to the hall, m’Lord?” _

_ “No, I’ll come to the door.” _

_ “Shall I come with you?” Dacey had asked pointedly. _

_ “No, don’t trouble yourself, I’m sure it will only take a moment,” Jorah had said as he headed towards the kitchen. _

_ He’d entered the kitchen and saw Nora still stood shivering on the porch, for the housekeeper had not invited her in. Although he’d fucked her or made love to her or some combination of the two at least a dozen times just over a year ago, he had rather intentionally not seen her even in passing since the night he’d struck his wife. “Come in,” he said to her, “And leave us,” he said to the cook and housekeeper. “What is it? You shouldn’t have come here,” he’d said once the servants had left. _

_ “Forgive me, m’Lord. But you told me to not fear coming to you if I was in need, and I have no where else to go for help.” Her eyes, which were fixed on his feet, were full of tears, and he wondered what he had meant to her. She looked weary and older than when he’d last seen her, the spark and boldness that he’d once been drawn to seemingly extinguished.  _

_ He had glanced behind him to make sure they were alone before stepping closer to her. He wanted to reach out, perhaps to embrace her, perhaps to lift her chin, but he stopped his arm from moving just in time. “Look at me,” he’d said gently, and when she met his gaze, he’d continued, “I did tell you that. What do you need?” _

_ “My husband has been sick for weeks. He’s been unable to work and gets worse every day. And my children- we have no money. Please, m’Lord, could you find me a position in your household? I will work hard, and I will not overstep my bounds.” _

_ “You know I cannot do that. If my Lady wife found out-,” he’d said in a hoarse whisper. “What happened between us last year was a mistake. To bring you into my household would be disrespectful to Lady Mormont and- and to your husband as well.”  _ Not to mention, a constant temptation to me _ , he did not say aloud. _

_ “Please, m’Lord, but how shall we live? My children are sick now too, and I have no money for food or medicine or for fuel. I have little more than twigs for firewood. They will freeze or starve if illness doesn’t take them first. My husband already knows what happened and will not object, and I promise I will not forget myself. Please, if not for me, then for my little ones.” _

_ Jorah had been startled by the knowledge that her husband knew though in truth, he shouldn’t have been. He had done little to hide it all. “What of your parents? Or your husband’s kin? Can’t they help you?” _

_ “My father died last spring, m’Lord, and my mother barely scrapes by on her own. My husband’s kin will not help. They- they say it is what I deserve. They say the children...” _

_ Jorah had not fully understood, but he’d felt guilty nonetheless, and panicked. He had promised her, but he had promised Sarra as well, and he didn’t know what to do. He shouldn’t have even been speaking to her, but he’d felt that he owed her that at least. “I cannot bring you into my household, but I’ll do what I can,” he’d said, his mind made up. “Did you walk up here?” When she nodded, he’d told her to wait a moment, that he’d be back. _

_ He’d gone quickly to the den and called Dacey out, telling her that needed to run to the village and to tell the others that he’d be back.  _

_ “Why?” Dacey had badgered. _

_ “The woman needs help. I don’t want to raise Tom at this time of night since I’m already up.” _

_ “You’ve never shown such consideration for Tom before,” Dacey had countered. When she got no answer, she continued, “I’ll go take care of whatever it is for you. Go spend time with your wife.” _

_ “This is not your concern. Tell the others as I’ve told you. I’ll be back soon.” _

_ “You’re making a mistake, Jorah,” she’d called after him as he turned and walked away. _

_ He’d quickly put on his boots and coat before he went to the medicine cabinet and took some of the children’s medicine that Aunt Maege kept for Lyra and Jorelle, and back in the kitchen, he’d filled a box with food and motioned for Nora to follow him as he walked to the garage and started his truck. He’d thrown several armsful of logs and an ax in the back. _

_ He drove her back to her house and handed her the box of food and the medicine and told her to go inside before going to her chopping block, and under the cover of darkness, he’d split enough logs to last a few days. He was hesitant to enter the small house- last time he’d been inside, he’d been in her bed- but he’d carried a large armful of split logs to the door, and when she opened it, he’d wiped his feet before carrying them to the fireplace. Her two small children lay covered in blankets, coughing and shivering on the foldout couch that served as their bed, and through the door, he could see the shadows of her bedroom and of her husband in bed.  _

_ The boy, who was the older of her two at nearly five years of age, had whispered, “Good evening, m’Lord. I knew he would come back, Mama.” Jorah had grown fond of the boy when he’d visited the house a year ago. Though he’d been flustered and embarrassed by his presence the first time he’d stopped by the house looking for his mother, he’d given the boy sweets or a small toy and spoken to him briefly each visit after, perhaps because of his fondness, perhaps because his innocence reminded Jorah that there was still hope in life, or perhaps simply to keep him placated when he was left to mind his little sister as his mother went with her Lord into the bedroom. Once, when Jorah had finished with his mother, he’d taken the boy on a short ride on his horse, and the boy had not stopped smiling the entire time. Perhaps Jorah had seen in him his own lost son who would have been nearly his age.  _

_ Ashamed by these memories, he’d turned away, knelt down, and began to build a fire, and he heard a rustle at the bedroom door, and Nora whispering something.  _

_ “M’Lord, I had not expected the honor of a visit, or I would have properly greeted you,” said a hoarse, masculine voice which disintegrated into coughing. Jorah had stood quickly and turned and saw her husband collapse into a chair. He was wrapped in a blanket, pale and thin, surely not fitting the image of a strong, Bear Island fisherman anymore. “Forgive me, m’Lord, for my lack of manners. It tires me to stand for more than a few moments at a time. But I understand you have visited before, so feel free to make yourself at home as you did then.” Nora hovered nervously at his shoulder attempting to hush him. _

_ “I’m sorry for your troubles,” Jorah had said to the man as he did his best to ignore his last comment, “I’ll send the maester first thing in the morning to check on you and the children.” _

_ “We can’t afford the maester, m’Lord, and you must know the children are both mine, though my wife is a whore,” the man had said as testily as he could given his weakness and coughing. _

_ This he could not ignore. “Of course they’re yours,” he’d answered stiffly. “Surely, this is your illness talking that you’d speak such lies about your own wife, but I’ll not stand for any more disrespect directed at her. She clearly cares for you deeply, or she would not have troubled her Lord on your behalf. I will take care of the maester’s visit and for any medical care that you and your children need. And I remind you to remember who I am and to think before you speak in the future. Once you’re healthy again, I’ll not be so lenient. Now, I’ll leave you to rest.”  _

_ The man had smirked but said no more. Lord Bolton would have had his tongue for his insolence, if not his head, and a half a dozen other Lords that he knew would have at least had the man flogged, despite his illness, but Jorah had not the heart. He’d knelt by the couch and patted the boy’s head, forcing a smile to his face before saying, “You be a good boy for your mother, Asher. Rest up and do as she says. I hope to see you playing in the village square soon. Perhaps we can go for another ride when you’re well. Would you like that?”  _

_ “Yes, m’Lord,” the boy said, his chapped lips curling into a smile. Then, he’d patted the girl’s head as well and walked towards the door, motioning for Nora to follow.  _

_ When he was outside, he handed her a fistful of money from his wallet. “I hope this will see you through. I’ll take care of the maester’s visits and any medicine you need, and I’ll let my men know that you have my permission to take what fuel you need from the forest. Do you know how to hunt or trap?” _

_ “I can trap, m’Lord.” _

_ “I’ll tell Tom to give you a hunting pass then, for whatever small game you can trap. And your husband’s oldest brother owns his own fishing boat, does he not? I can assure you that he will not forget his duty to his kin again.” A fisherman needed someplace to dock his boat, and as Lord, Jorah had complete control over every dock on Bear Island. It would be easy enough to pressure the man to provide for his brother’s family. “When Asher is old enough, he can have a position working in the stables. That’s the best I can do for you. Please do not come to the Keep like that again. And speak of this to no one. I cannot be seen to have favorites.”  _ Nor can I afford to have any of the other women from last year showing up looking for favors _ , he left unsaid. Word would get out, whether it be from the cook, the housekeeper, her good-brother, or the maester, but the fewer who knew of this, the better.  _

_ “I understand, m’Lord. Thank you for your help. You are a good man, a good lord,” she’d replied softly.  _

_ He’d wanted to apologize for hurting her, but he could not form the words. She’d been his first kiss when he’d been little more than a boy, and later, she’d been the first girl he’d loved. He’d wondered if she’d believe him all those years ago, when he’d told her he’d make her his Lady on the day he’d lain with her in the forest. He’d believed it himself at the time. Without mentioning a specific name, he’d even asked Aunt Maege that evening if she thought he might be allowed to marry a common girl from the Island. Though his father didn’t think him too old for a beating, Aunt Maege had stopped hitting him since he’d become a teenager and even listened to his opinion from time to time as he grew older, so he didn’t fear speaking to her quite as much as he once had. Maege had laughed and told him that his Lord father would never allow such a thing. He’d argued that she’d been allowed to love whom she wanted, and Dacey said that she would marry whomever she pleased, why couldn’t he, it wasn’t fair. She’d simply laughed again and said, “Who told you that life would be fair, boy? You’re to be Lord after your Father and your son after you, not me, not Dacey. So you must marry a proper Lady for the sake of the future of the House. It’s your duty, so you’d best not get too attached to whatever girl it is that you fancy. She’s to be your subject, and you her Lord, and that is all. And don’t even think about putting a baby in her. I daresay your Lord father will beat you half to death, and you will have to acknowledge the child, but he still won’t let you marry her. You’ll leave the girl shamed with no future prospects, so if you care for her at all, forget about this nonsense.” Jorah had responded to this news, which broke his young heart, by breaking Nora’s heart in turn, putting a distance between them, seeking out other girls, barely speaking another word to her, and he’d succeeded in mostly forgetting about her by the time he left for the Academy a few years later, until he’d seen her in the pub after coming back from his war. And then he’d used her and abandoned her again.  _

_ “I very much doubt that, but I thank you all the same,” was all the reply he’d managed. “You are a strong woman. I wish you good fortune and your children a speedy recovery.” He’d taken her hand and squeezed it, and then returned to his truck and driven back to the Keep. _

_ By the time he’d returned, most of the household had gone to bed. He’d nearly allowed himself another ale before shaking his head. He’d called the maester and gave him his orders for first thing in the morning, and then he’d gone to his chambers. _

_ “Is everything alright, Jorah?” Sarra had asked sleepily.  _

_ “Yes, sweetheart. It was just one of the village women. Her children are sick, and she was in need of help with- with getting the maester to come.” Sarra had sat up and Jorah has seen a question there that she dared not ask. “Her husband was there and is sick as well,” he’d added quickly, as if that rectified everything. _

_ “And you care for her?” It was a statement more than a question. They both knew a Lord did not personally go to the aid of one of his common women late at night and in such weather. At best, he’d send one of his men in the morning. At worst, he’d ignore her plea completely. He should have sent Tom, he thought. Gods dammit, why hadn’t he sent Tom instead of going himself? He’d done it because he was a fool, because he panicked, because he was ashamed, because perhaps, though he would never admit it, he felt that he owed it to Nora, but now he’d gone and fouled things up with Sarra again. _

_ He had not replied for a long time, and Sarra had sighed and laid her head back down, defeated. Finally, he’d said, “I- I’m sorry, I should have spoken to you before I went. I should have told you. I swear, there is nothing between us anymore, but I promised her once that if she was in need, she should not fear coming to me, and I wanted to keep my word.” He’d cursed himself the second those last words left his mouth, for with them, he condemned himself as a hypocrite, a liar, an oathbreaker. How could he speak to his wife of keeping his word to another women after what he’d done to her?  _

_ “And you care for her children as well.” This one was truly a statement, and the look of pain on her face broke his heart. _

_ “They aren’t mine,” he’d blurted quickly. “I hadn’t spoken to their mother in years when they were born.” She said nothing. “But yes,” he’d admitted, “I do care for them. I’ve offered the boy a position in the stable when he’s old enough. It’ll be some years yet, but if you don’t want him here, just tell me. I should have asked you first.” _

_ She’d sighed before replying, “It’s not his fault. A child shouldn’t be punished for something that was an adult’s doing.” _

_ They spoke no more of the matter, but he knew he’d broken her heart again.  _

_ And so it was that on Asher’s eighth name day, he came to work in the stables. Sarra had treated him as kindly as any of the other stable boys, tutoring him when he needed help with his homework, seeing that he was well clothed and fed, and sending him home with treats, and Jorah had marveled at the gentleness of her heart. _

  
  


_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I killed her off (or rather GRRM killed her off and I followed his lead) several chapters ago, but Sarra will make several more appearances in flashback chapters. And you may have missed it, but Asher has made several appearances in previous flashback chapters as a stableboy/squire, and we may be seeing him again in the future.


	39. Chapter 22  - Daenerys - November 1301 AC

**Chapter 22 - Daenerys - November 1301 AC**

“Enough!” Daenerys said firmly but quietly. She was relieved when the room instantly fell silent. 

She had been listening to her advisors argue for what seemed like hours, and they were no closer to an agreement than they’d been when the council had begun. She could barely hear herself think over their squabbling. She wanted to curl up in a ball, to cry. She wanted to tell them that she was just a girl, how could they expect her to make such decisions. Jorah would understand even if some of the others might not. But she was the Queen. She had to appear confident in her decision.

“We will leave Harrenhal and the east for now,” she declared. “We will go with the night attack on Riverrun. This may be the key to an alliance with the North. Ser Jorah, decide on your team and do what training you need. You will carry out the attack within the week.”

Jorah was not happy, she could tell. He thought the plan foolish, and he was also oddly resistant to prioritizing any further contact with the North, but she suspected that just as much, he was jealous because she chose a rival’s plan over his own. Nonetheless, he bowed his head and answered gruffly, “As my Queen commands.” 

  
  
  


\---

In her months since reaching Stony Sept, Daenerys started to learn to rule. Having deferred most of her life to her father and her brother and the men charged with her protection, she found it freeing, exhilarating, and terrifying to suddenly have the final say in all matters. 

She also discovered that she had been naive. Ser Jorah had cautioned her to not get her hopes up, but she’d been certain that once word was released that she still lived and that she had the Unsullied, most of the Houses of Westeros, lowly and great alike, would bend the knee to her as their rightful Queen. Yet, in the immediate aftermath, only a handful of houses from the Crownlands answered her call for men along with a few small houses in the vicinity of Stony Sept. The latter did so out of fear most likely. As days turned into weeks, there was no word from Winterfell or Highgarden or Oldtown. Dorne, busy with its own fighting, sent a short message saying only that Prince Doran rejoiced to learn she lived and hoped that Daenerys would honor her late father’s wishes to unite their Houses through a marriage to his son, Quentyn. It seemed that any help in the form of soldiers or supplies was dependent on her acceptance of the offer. She slowly began to realize that the fight to reclaim the throne would be much longer and harder than she’d expected.

At the same time, ruling her small tract of territory brought its own impossible challenges. The Unsullied, in an attempt to keep anarchy at bay, patrolled on foot as their trucks and armored vehicles sat nearly worthless in neat formations. Jorah and Grey said they must save their precious gasoline in case of an actual attack. The men could not train as they would have liked for fear they would run out of ammunition. Daenerys and her soldiers ate well enough, but there was a food shortage among the commoners, and paper currency had lost its value. The people in the territory, her people, her responsibility, turned to barter and fought over every scrap of food and clothing and every liter of fuel. Crime rates increased and the Unsullied struggled to maintain order. The power grid was down, the water and sewage plant had constant issues, and there was a shortage of medicine at the hospital. Jorah had assured her that the food situation would improve as spring turned to summer and crops came in, but as for the rest, they needed allies or to conquer more territory to get the other things they needed. 

A segment of the population seemed to love her and to view her as a liberator, but she’d heard grumblings that others viewed her as nothing more than the daughter of the Mad King and a foreign invader with her army of Unsullied. Despite her proclamation, it seemed that high born and commoner alike in the region surrounding Stony Sept were not eager to accept the dark skinned Unsullied as fellow citizens.

The stress wore on her and began to manifest itself in dreams, dreams which were so realistic as to seem to be visions. She saw dragons in her dreams, and when she woke, she could still feel the heat of their scales. She also saw her lost child, both grown and as she imagined he had actually been when he died, though she’d not seen him, for Missi or Jorah had buried the body while she burned with fever. In her visions, a witch told her that she would never bear another, for she was made for fire and blood, not for new life. It was ridiculous to believe such a thing, but she hadn’t had her moonblood since she’d lost her baby, so she worried. She thought to speak to Missandei of this, woman to woman, or perhaps to Irri, who was superstitious and believed in the power of dreams, but in the end, she chose Ser Jorah. 

She feared he’d laugh when she finished her story, but he answered kindly, “Dreams have a mind of their own. You’ve been under a great deal of stress these past months, Daenerys.” He was careful to address her more formally if anyone else was present, but he still occasionally used her given name in private, and for that she was grateful. “I am no expert on a woman’s body, but I’ve heard stress and lack of food can affect things. I’m sure in time, everything will return to normal.”

“But what if they don’t? What if I truly can’t have children? A queen must have an heir, and who will want to marry me if I’m barren? Even the desperate Martells won’t want me.” Ser Jorah looked down, and she instantly regretted her words.  _ He _ would marry her gladly, she knew. He’d not said another word about his feelings for her or what had nearly transpired between them in her tent on the way to Stony Sept since she’d reminded him of his place, but she knew he still wanted her, still loved her. She saw it in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but he seemed helpless to do so. 

Jorah cleared her throat before answering her. “It is a long way to go before such what ifs, my Queen, and maesters can work wonders these days. But even if it is true, any man who doesn’t want you for such a reason isn’t worthy of your love or of the title of Prince Consort. You will be the mother of the entire realm with more than enough children to worry about.”

She dismissed him after that and considered what he’d said, but if she couldn’t care for the small population of Stony Sept and its surroundings, how was she to care for all of the kingdoms? 

\---

She sat musing over these many problems one hot day in July when Ser Jorah knocked. He was wearing the new duty uniform that she’d insisted he wear when not in the field as a sign of his new rank, for he was both her most trusted general as well as first of her Queensguard. Though he’d agreed to it only begrudgingly and still preferred his nondescript combat fatigues, he wore it proudly now even as sweat glimmered on his forehead. “Some scouts have taken a prisoner who may be of interest to you, Khaleesi,” he said. “It’s Ser Barristan. He claims he wants to join your cause, but I’m not sure the man can be trusted.”

Her heart leapt. Ser Barristan was one of the most respected and honorable military men in all of Westeros. If he joined her cause, surely others would follow. But one of his own men had killed her father. He’d bent the knee to Robert Baratheon and Joffrey shortly thereafter, and he’d not turned up in May or in the immediate weeks that followed her arrival at Stony Sept when he must have known that she was alive.

When she called him in, he’d immediately gone to one knee, begged her forgiveness, and asked to be accepted into her service in any capacity that she would have him. “I thought you were dead, Your Grace, or I never would have pledged myself to someone else,” he said solemnly.

“What evidence did you have that I was dead that the Unsullied did not have? They stayed loyal despite the rumors.”

“They were not privy to Lord Varys’ briefing, Your Grace. He told me that he had a first hand account from a reliable source that you had escaped the initial assasination attempt only to be captured later and that you perished in an accidental fire while being held. Lord Varys’ source said one of your followers had buried your bones where no one would find them and then fled to Essos. Since there was no word of Ser Jorah, and since he has a history in Essos, I suspected that he had buried you.” 

“And you took the Spider at his word?” growled Ser Jorah. “He was a traitor himself involved in this plot. Then you delayed months before leaving your Baratheon masters even once it was known that your true Queen lived?”

Daenerys shushed Jorah with a look, but then turned to Ser Barristan for an answer, for Jorah had raised valid points.

“I do not believe Lord Varys was involved in the plot or had reason to lie to me. He simply chose to cooperate with the winning side.” Ser Jorah snorted in disbelief, and Ser Barristan fixed him with a hard look before continuing, “And the information he shared about his source was convincing enough to believe. It was definitely from someone who was there and saw things up close. I was flown to Blackhaven as a prisoner myself and saw the burned up barn myself, and the bones of the others. Robert offered me a pardon in exchange for my service, and so I took it as I thought the last Targaryen was dead. I was skeptical of the initial report that you still lived because so much evidence was to the contrary. Once I believed it, I was torn because I’d made an oath to another. But you are right in saying that the Unsullied showed more loyalty than me. I am ashamed to admit that I only sought you out when Joffrey dismissed me, and for that, I can only beg your forgiveness.”

_ A queen must be merciful as well as just _ , she reminded herself. Besides, she could use another honorable knight in her service as both a protector and advisor. She’d already put so much on Jorah’s shoulders. She knew that Jorah thought the Lord Commander had been unfair to him before, but Ser Barristan had only been doing his job, surely he would not begrudge him for that.

“Very well, Ser Barristan,” she said with a smile, “I forgive you and will hear your pledge as a knight of my Queensguard.” Ser Jorah shifted beside her. “You will report to Ser Jorah,” she added. 

  
  


\---

In the coming months, she left Lords Smallwood and Rykker and a small detachment of soldiers in charge of Stony Sept while the rest moved on to increase their territory and thus their supplies. They had taken Acorn Hall and Pinkmaiden easily enough, and High Heart with a bit more of a fight. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan argued frequently about battle plans, but they were always civil and professional enough in her presence, and once she made a decision, they both followed her orders with no further argument.

When it came time for the fighting, Ser Barristan and Lord Darry stayed at the headquarters with her while Jorah and Grey led the men in the field. She hated the feeling of helplessness that came over her as she waited, unsure of victory, unsure of who would return to her alive. Yet,  _ he _ always returned, spattered in mud or covered in dust and occasionally slightly bloodied, but otherwise none the worse for wear, and each time she wanted to run to him and embrace him, but it would not be fitting for a Queen to act in such a manner, and besides, he was fine, so she resisted. 

It was only after they took High Heart that she worried a little. Jorah had looked pale and drawn throughout the debriefing in Acorn Hall, and afterwards, he’d excused himself and not joined the others for dinner. She’d sent Irri to take him a tray, and when she’d asked after him later, Irri said that his hands had shaken as he took it from her. She nearly went to him herself when she heard the news, but it would be unbecoming. 

\---

In October, they moved on Stone Hedge. From there, they would either turn west towards Riverrun or turn east towards Harrenhal. Riverrun, the longtime seat of House Tully, had been captured by the Frey’s months before, and now its surrounding territories, including Stone Hedge, were largely held by a company of mercenaries from Essos known as the Second Sons. 

“Mercenaries fight for coin,” Daenerys said. “Surely, they can be bought.”

“With what money?” asked Ser Barristan.

“Even if we had the money, no sellswords will stay in business long if they break their contract each time they have a higher bidder,” said Ser Jorah.

A shout from outside interrupted the council, and an Unsullied guard came in to tell them that an officer from the Second Sons was there with an offer.

A mustached man in a flamboyant though mud streaked uniform strode in with a guard on either side and greeted Daenerys with a sweeping bow. She thought he looked vaguely familiar. She certainly found him handsome. “My Queen, I come to offer you the services of the Second Sons,” the man said with a slight accent.

“And you are?” she asked?

“My name is Daario Naharis. You may recall that we danced at your Name Day Ball, my Queen.” 

Of course! So much had happened since then that she hadn’t immediately recalled him, but now, she remembered. 

“You are third in command of the Second Sons. By what right do you make this offer?” asked Ser Barristan.

“Ah, that was true this morning, but there has been an update to our leadership. My Queen, if I may, I present you a gift.” With a flourish, Daario overturned his satchel and two heads dropped onto the floor. 

“What kind of sick joke do you think this is?” growled Jorah, stepping between her and Daario, presumably to shield her from the view. 

But Daenerys shushed Jorah. The site made her stomach roll slightly, but she was a Queen at war, and she had seen plenty of death. She would not faint at the sight before her. “I assume these are your former superiors?” she asked. When he smiled and nodded, she continued, “And why would you do such a thing?” 

“I have thought of you day and night since I last saw you,” he said, stepping closer, though Jorah still blocked his path. “I wept when I heard the lie of your demise and felt reborn when I heard you still lived. I wouldn’t dream of fighting against you, the most beautiful woman in the world, the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My captains disagreed and cared only for the coin they would earn, so I had to take things into my own hands. And now I offer you the services of the Second Sons, the greatest mercenary company in all the world.”

“And the rest of your comrades feel the same way?” she asked, ignoring Jorah’s snort of disdain.

“Well,” he replied lightly, “They will want more coin eventually, but they can wait until you take back your kingdom for full payment. For the short term, they ask for only a steady supply of food and alcohol and ask your assurance that you will not shut down the brothels. Do not worry though, they will be sober and ready when you need them.”

She glanced from Jorah to Barristan to Grey, and saw that all three seemed disgusted by the man. Yet, he offered her thousands of well trained, well armed, well supplied men. And he had a charming smile. 

“Do you come to me as a mercenary or as one who will take an oath of allegiance?” 

“I come as a man who will swear his sword and his heart to his Queen,” said Daario going to a knee. 

So it was decided, and so Daario Naharis and the Second Sons gave her Stone Hedge.

\---

Though Jorah seemed to trust none of the others save Grey, she trusted the men who formed her inner council- Ser Barristan, Daario, Grey, and of course, Ser Jorah most of all. It seemed Jorah could communicate with just a look. When she doubted herself or was unsure in council meetings, she found she only need look at him, and he would reassure her or tell her that she was in fact misguided without speaking a word.

But sometimes the men around her seemed to squabble like old women, and she grew tired of their infighting and thinly concealed jealousies. And as much as she needed Jorah’s seriousness, his steadiness, and the look of unadulterated love in his eyes that appeared when he spoke to her in private or when he thought no one else noticed, the intensity of it scared her. Perhaps for this reason, she began to shower favors on Daario who was young and handsome and amusing, for her feelings about him were not serious and thus did not scare her at all. She accepted gifts from him and humored his bombast. She often sat beside him at dinner, laughing at his jokes and charming words. She missed Robb still, but she realized that he had been dead for longer than she’d known him, and she had missed the company of a handsome, charming, young man who was not too serious. He was the perfect distraction from the stress of ruling. When she glanced at Ser Jorah during these meals, she saw that he was more sullen than normal. 

As autumn began to turn to winter, her advisors urged her to make her decision - west for Riverrun with the hopes of winning over what remained of the Tullys and the Starks as a result or east for Harrenhal and access to the Narrow Sea beyond. Jorah continued to be nothing but obedient and kind towards her, but he became more argumentative than ever with both Daario and Ser Barristan, and she began to tire of it. He favored taking Harrenhal and all its military supplies and then continuing to move east to gain access to the Narrow Sea. He wanted nothing to do with forming an alliance with the North just yet, and thus did not want to move further North. Daario wanted to take Riverrun first due to its prestige and also because he said he knew the city and had a daring plan to take it. There was a secret way in, he said, and a small team could enter the city, take out the major guard posts near the eastern entrance, and open the city to her entire army. Barristan also favored taking Riverrun, for he wanted to put pressure on the Westerlands and potentially create a link with the North, though he argued for a more conventional attack. Both he and Jorah argued vehemently that Daario’s plan was far too risky. In the end though, Daenerys found herself out of patience and appreciating Daario’s boldness, so she chose his plan. 

Jorah, accompanied by Daario, would personally lead the attack team of just two dozen men. They would approach the outer gates of the city via the river on rafts under the cover of darkness, remove several grates that led to a watery passage beneath the city, and swim a short distance to an underground entrance before emerging to take out several guardposts and open the main gates to the city. They would then signal for the bulk of the army to attack through these gates. It was risky- suicidal as far as Ser Barristan was concerned- but if they succeeded, they could take the city quickly with far fewer casualties, both to her army and to the civilians within. Perhaps it was also foolish to send her top general on such an attack, but he had more previous training for covert operations than any of the other men. Besides, stubborn as he was, he said he wouldn’t send men on such a mission if he wouldn’t go on it himself. She feared for all the men, and of course for Jorah most of all, but a Queen must take risks from time to time.

\--- 

On the evening of the attack on Riverrun, she went down to where the men were preparing to see them off. When she came to Ser Jorah to wish him well, he pulled her aside and without preamble he told her it wasn’t too late to change her mind. He wore no body armor so that he wouldn’t get weighed down in the water, but he looked fierce in his helmet with his carefully waterproofed rifle strapped to his chest and a handgun and blade strapped to his hips and dark camouflage grease on his face, but his eyes were uneasy. “We may be walking into an ambush, Your Grace. Naharis has such limited updated intelligence on the city. We don’t even know for certain whose side he’s on. You shouldn’t trust the man’s intentions.”

“And it’s you I should trust, Ser Jorah, only you?” she snapped, tired of his insistent belittling of everything that Daario said. 

He looked taken aback, and replied stiffly, “I did not say that.”

But she charged ahead. “But you do in all of your actions. You try to push all other men away from me- Robb, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Barristan, Lord Darry, Lord Rykker, Gendry and the other privates who served me perfectly well, and now Daario. You see nearly every man as a rival for my affection and hide behind the facade of distrust of their motives and the need to protect me. The only one you don’t push away is Grey, and perhaps that’s because you know he has eyes only for Missandei. I value your council, Ser, and your friendship. I cherish and respect you, but I do not desire you, and your jealousy will not change that. It does not serve me, and it does not make me love you any better. Now, my decision on this mission is final.” 

He stood perfectly still, and his face, which had flushed dark under his camouflage when she’d begun, now looked pale. “If my Queen commands,” he said coldly, with a slight bow of his head. He’d never spoken coldly to her before.

“She does command,” Daenerys huffed, or else she would have cried. “Now go see to my men.” 

He bowed again and then walked towards the waiting trucks immediately, barking at the soldiers to mount up. When he was gone, she regretted her tone.  _ He goes into battle for me, I should not have left him with harsh words. And it is not true what I said about Robb. He never kept me from Robb. But he will forgive me, and he will come back safe and sound because he always does. _

\---

They waited for the signal for the larger attack for what felt like hours, and she fretted dreadfully as she sat helplessly with Missi and Irri. She called Ser Barristan and Grey to ask for updates, but Jorah’s team had gone in with radio silence, so there was no word. At long last, she heard shouts outside the command tent that the signal had come, the gates were open. The small team had succeeded, but at what cost?

It was past noon before the city was secured, and she had no news about casualties though Ser Barristan told her that the advance team had suffered heavy losses. She was escorted by Grey and a full company of Unsullied to the Great Hall in Riverrun. Ser Jorah, muddy and spattered with blood and walking with a slight limp but seemingly otherwise unhurt, waited for her there, and she felt a flood of relief when she saw him. Jorah went to his knee before her, and announced that Riverrun was hers. “And where is Daario Naharis?” she asked. 

Then she saw him, in his handsome glory as he strode into the hall and presented her with the Frey banner, taken from the tallest tower. She was so relieved to see Daario alive that she barely noticed the heartbroken expression on Jorah’s face. 

\---

Several hours later, she and many of her high ranking officers and advisors ate in the Great Hall of Riverrun. She thought she saw Ser Jorah enter the hall, but a short time later, he sent his regrets via a messenger. There was work to be done to secure the city and take stock of supplies, so he would be late. 

She waited for hours until nearly everyone but Daario and her handmaids were gone, and still he had not appeared. 

“Perhaps I should send some food to his room,” she said at last with a sigh.

“Perhaps you should send him more than food,” said Daario with a mischievous grin.

“What do you mean?”

“After a fight like that, even an old man like Jorah the Andal could use a woman to see to his needs. Perhaps you could send Irri,” he said with a wink at the handmaid, who blushed visibly despite her dark hue. “Or if Irri doesn’t fancy him, there are a whole host of whores who’d be happy to serve as a gift from the Queen for the right price. I think your Ser Jorah is a bit shy, so I understand that he wouldn’t want to be seen at a brothel, as I’m sure they’re swarming with victorious soldiers tonight. But it’s a cold night and we spent most of the last day crawling in the mud in wet uniforms. He could use a pretty girl to massage his stiff muscles and warm his bed.”

“Enough of this talk,” Daenerys snapped, suddenly finding herself both curious and perhaps, just perhaps, a bit jealous. She knew Jorah had loved his Lady Lynesse and that he’d been married once before her as well, but she knew little of his romantic life beyond that. She’d never known him to speak to a woman or to go to brothels before the war when they lived at the Red Keep, but then, she knew nothing of what he did on his rare days off. And surely there’d been women during his years in Essos after his divorce. The Dothraki were notorious for their promiscuity. He wasn’t exactly a handsome man but he was strong and a warrior, and one didn’t need to be handsome to lie with a whore or a Dothraki slave. “I’m tired. I will see you tomorrow, Daario,” she said and abruptly stood and walked to her new chambers- freshly made over for her already, it’s former occupant dead or in the dungeon- trailed by two Unsullied guards and her handmaids. She nearly stopped at Ser Jorah’s door, just down the hall from her own, but she resisted and charged on. 

Once she was in her chambers, she turned to Irri and Missandei. “Perhaps Daario is right. Do you think you could go find a girl to Ser Jorah’s liking and send her to his room?”

“I don’t think Ser Jorah would like any of the girls in the brothels, Your Grace,” said Missandei softly.

“Why not? He is a man, isn’t he?”

“He is. But I think his heart is pledged to someone already.”

Daenerys found herself suddenly angry at Ser Jorah, for she wished he didn’t make his feelings for her so obvious. Did everyone know? “My understanding of men is that the heart does not have to be involved to take comfort from a woman. He must be sore after the battle, and Daario is right, it is a cold night. Irri, please take some guards and go to one of the brothels and find him a pretty girl. His Lady Lynesse had fair hair. Find him someone like that, get her a tray of food and drink to bring to him, and make sure he knows she is from me. Tell him that I order him to take a break from his duties and relax as a reward for winning me the city. Come back afterwards to help me prepare for bed. Missandei, you may go see to Grey.”

As she waited for Irri to return, she stared out over the city of Riverrun feeling angry and alone. She was angry at Daario, angry at Jorah, angry at the unnamed and unknown whore whom she hoped would bring him comfort, and angry at herself for her feelings. After a long while, Irri returned.

“Well?”

“He sent her away, Khaleesi,” the girl replied timidly. “I did as you said. She was very pretty and blonde and young, but he did not want her or the food or drink. I told him she was a gift from you, and that I could find him another if he preferred, but he said I mocked him and cursed at me and closed the door in my face.” 

“He cursed at you?” _ He didn’t even take the food? _This worried her. She had never known Ser Jorah to not have a hearty appetite. “That is not acceptable. I will speak to him in the morning. If he wants to be hungry and miserable tonight, so be it.” 

  
Yet, as Irri helped her change and combed her hair, she found that she felt relief. Though she was certain she did not want him, she did not want another to have him either. He was  _ hers _ , he had sworn himself to her until his dying day. She thought to call for Jorah herself simply to speak some thanks, to apologize for her harsh words the previous night, and to make sure that he’d eaten, but she reminded herself that a Queen did not need to apologize to her servants, did not need to thank them for doing their duty, did not need to worry about their comfort. That night, she called Daario to her chambers for the first time. She needed a break from the stress of rule. She wanted to be amused and entertained. 


	40. Chapter 23 - Jorah - December 1302 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a year of story time has passed since the last chapter because this is already a very slow burn and without skipping some battle/conquest details, it becomes an even slower burn. However, the passage of time is also important because I think the longevity of Jorah and Daenerys' relationship is very relevant both in the book and show.

**Chapter 23 - Jorah - December 1302 AC**

“Please leave me,” Daenerys said as she stood and walked towards the window, abruptly ending the council meeting. Jorah stood and began to walk towards the door when she added, “Not you, Jorah.” 

The war had raged on for two years now, but it seemed that no side was any closer to victory though several sides had been eliminated. Jorah was proud of the Queen that Daenerys had become. She was no longer a hesitant, scared girl, barely more than a child, and she ruled with confidence and a regal grace. Under her command, they’d taken larger portions of the Riverlands and forged true alliances with a number of smaller Houses. For the most part, the poorest of the common people loved her once they gave her a chance, for she gave them far greater rights and liberties than any of their previous overlords, even as these policies made enemies of many nobles and the wealthy. Yet, sometimes he worried that in her attempt to be strong and regal, she was becoming too brutal and too cold, dishing out punishments, that while just, would do little to win over those who were still uncommitted. And however much he tried to hide it, he missed the intimacy of the time before they’d come to Stony Sept, when he’d had Daenerys almost entirely to himself, the time before she’d been a queen, before she’d so completely and utterly rejected him.

Yet, now she had a decision to make, and it was to him that she turned. He would keep his desire and jealousy in check and be the advisor and friend that she deserved, he vowed to himself, as the others made their way out of the room.

  
  


\---

The morning after her rejection, the morning after they’d taken Riverrun, he’d been called to her chambers for a private audience shortly after dawn. It was early, but not so early that he hadn’t already been up for some time and observed Daario slipping from her room with a grin on his face. 

_ She isn’t mine. She’s never been mine _ , he reminded himself as he knocked and called out his arrival.

“Ser Jorah, you never came to dine last night, and Irri says you did not accept the food I sent. Did you eat?” she asked sweetly once he stood before her.

“I found that I wasn’t hungry, Your Grace, but I’ve eaten this morning,” he replied. 

In truth, he’d been ready to eat, but when he’d walked into the Great Hall, he’d seen her laughing with Daario and her rejection from before the battle- her harsh words about his motives and jealousy, her harsher words that had pierced his heart, “ _ I do not desire you _ ”- had come back to him like a punch in the gut which only exacerbated the queasiness that was already there after the bloodiness of the battle. So instead of joining the cheerful gathering, he’d turned and tried to distract himself with duties that could have waited and then gone to his new room, where, hands shaking and sweat gathering on his brow despite the chilliness of the evening, he’d thrown up whatever was left in his stomach from his last meal. 

The violence of the attack on Riverrun had paled in comparison to some of the things he’d seen in Astapor or on the Rhoyne or with the Dothraki, but still, it left him oddly shaken. In order to keep the element of surprise, they’d avoided using firearms early on after slipping out of the river and killed with blades and their bare hands during the initial assault. Jorah had slit one man’s throat and strangled another. And he’d killed a boy- a serving boy, or perhaps someone’s squire. He’d hesitated for a heartbeat, picturing Asher, who was that age, but then he’d shaken his head, remembering that Asher was now a grown man, older than he’d been when he’d returned from Astapor for the last time, and he ended the boy’s life with a single slash of his blade. He’d had little choice, the boy would have raised the alarm if he’d escaped and then they all might have been killed, but that did little to erase the memory from his mind. 

After they’d opened the gate to the old city, real fighting had begun, and bullets and explosions had ripped through the air as men screamed and died around him. To add to it all, he’d sprained his ankle leaping over a low wall and spent the next eight hours limping about in a damp and muddy uniform, for it had taken until nearly noon to dry after climbing out of the river. He blamed it for the shaking. He’d been cold was all. Anyone would shiver in such conditions, even a hardened combat veteran like himself. But by the end of the fighting, he’d had to clench his rifle as tight as he could to hide the tremors in his hands. He couldn’t let the men see, nor Daenerys. They’d think there was something wrong with him. And he worried that perhaps they would be right. Perhaps he was growing soft in his old age. 

Then came the executions. He and Ser Barristan had been in agreement, for once, and convinced her to keep most of the Frey men alive as hostages, along with the the Frey women and children who were present, but they had beheaded several of Walder Frey’s many grandsons on Daenerys’ command, a small act of revenge for the murder of Robb Stark. Thankfully, he’d steadied himself enough by then to make them clean deaths.

He’d been sitting on the hard floor in his new room, a room whose previous occupant he’d likely just beheaded, staring into space, trying to calm himself from a panic that hadn’t clawed at him in his waking hours like this in years, trying to forget everything from the past day, when Irri had knocked on his door, and the sight of the offered whore with her tray of food and liquor had nearly sent him over the edge. He didn’t remember what he’d said to Irri, but he was sure it was unkind and unchivalrous. In truth, at the sight, a tiny part of him had wanted both the whore and the liquor though his heart had despaired that Daenerys thought he would want either, and he’d slammed the door to avoid the temptation. He’d woken up from a nightmare hours later to find himself curled on the floor. 

“I will apologize to Irri if I offended her in any way,” he added to Daenerys as a silence stretched between them that next morning. Obviously Irri had reported back on his behavior. 

“Irri did say you spoke rather roughly. I’m confused as to why you would take such offense at what I offered.”

Jorah had stood silent, unsure how to respond, afraid he would say something rash which would cause Daenerys to once again voice her lack of desire for him. 

“Well,” continued Daenerys, “I’m glad to hear you have eaten. I was worried about you yesterday. You may go. I’ll see you at the council meeting shortly.” Then she turned to her desk and began to look through some papers.

Jorah hesitated before saying softly, “Do you truly think so little of me, Daenerys?” She turned to face him again, her face confused. 

Daenerys reddened as realization swept over her face. “I meant it to thank you for winning me the city! Daario suggested that you would have the need after such a fight. And I thought it might at least be something since you can’t have…” She trailed off. 

So it was Daario’s idea. That she’d gone along with it saddened him, but it was a relief to know she hadn’t thought of it on her own. “I swore an oath to you, my Queen. I will not abandon you simply because I don’t get what I want.”

“But surely some thanks was warranted for your services!” Daenery protested. 

“Would you send Ser Barristan such a gift? You told me yesterday that you cherished and respected me. That is all I ask. Nor do I seek to find a cheap replacement for my heart’s desire. If I wanted such a thing, I know where to find it myself. Daario, on the other hand, may demand such thanks, and that is why I worry. You call it jealousy, and I admit I am not faultless in this though I protest that I have never put it before my duty. And it is my duty to protect you.”

“You saw him this morning, didn’t you?” she said with a sigh. When he didn’t respond, she continued, “You are too protective, my bear, you’d trust no one if you could. Daario is harmless.” 

“Daario killed his own captains because he didn’t get what he wanted.”

She stood and came to him, taking his hands. “I am not a child, Ser. I am capable of taking care of myself with men. But I will be careful, I promise. And I do thank you for your concern. And for giving me this victory.” 

\---

In the months that followed, she had shown him that she respected and cherished him. She made it clear that if he spoke an order, he spoke it on her behalf, and she reaffirmed him as her most trusted advisor and dearest friend. In her presence, no one dared question his position, but it was a different story when she was not around. 

Ser Barristan was cordial and honorable of course, but he seemed to forget that he was now Jorah’s subordinate, forever telling Jorah that he was doing his job wrong. He was too casual in his interaction with the Queen and too insolent when he disagreed with her, Selmy said, he lacked table manners for court, he needed to shave and quit wearing his field uniform all the time, he needed to take on a highborn boy to be his squire or stewart and stop lowering himself with menial labor because it would lower his position, he needed to stay more to the rear during fighting, and on and on and on. All the while, Selmy dressed and acted as if he was in the Red Keep during peacetime, with his impeccably kept uniform and grooming, his perfect courtly manners, and his near continual agreement with whatever Daenerys wanted.

The only point that Jorah was willing to concede was that he did act like a low level officer in the field instead of a general once the fighting started. Though Jorah would never admit it, the truth was that he was more comfortable in that role. He had ample experience as a junior officer, crawling through dust and mud into enemy fire with his men. He’d only been a captain when he’d fled Westeros and now he was expected to be a general. He felt like a fraud in the position even as he knew that the plans he made had worked thus far. Besides, it wasn’t as if the former Lord Commander had extensive war time experience. Yes, Barristan the Bold had surely earned his nickname and his appointment to the Kingsguard after his heroics during the last Blackfyre Invasion, a brief conflict consisting of a single battle that had taken place four decades prior, but since that time, he had lived a life at court. As for the rest, perhaps the honorable old knight had a point on a few things, but they were at war. Once the war was won, Jorah would work on his manners and grooming if Daenerys cared for such a thing, but he’d be damned if he ever became a yes-man like Ser Barristan. How would that serve the Queen? 

And then there was that damned Daario Naharis. How Jorah wanted to wipe the smirk off of his face. Jorah was first of Daenerys’ Queensguard. It was his job to know who entered and exited the Queen’s chamber. He wasn’t blind to what was going on between Naharis and the Queen on a regular basis though Daenerys seemed to want to keep it hidden, only calling Daario late at night, and sending him away before most others were awake. Naharis, on the other hand, seemed to take great joy in flaunting his privileges before Jorah and was forever making jokes at Jorah’s expense, always when Daenerys was not present.

Jorah did his best to ignore the comments, as long as the words were only disrespectful towards him and not his Queen, for he’d found that responding only egged Naharis on more. Besides, what could he say? Daenerys had made her choice. Last time he’d questioned Daario’s intentions, Daeerys had not reacted well, and he wasn’t ready to face that humiliation again. Nor could he challenge the man to single combat as he might have done in his younger days, for no matter the outcome, Daenerys would be furious. He could only hope that this was a temporary arrangement and that Daenerys broke it off before she got hurt.

\---

They’d taken Fairmarket Inn and Lord Harroway’s Town in the months that had followed, with only the fortified city of Harrehal holding out as a thorn in their side in the southron portions of the Riverlands. With the capture of Saltpans in November, they had access to harbor and in theory, to greater trade, if only they had a navy and a merchant fleet. They gained reinforcements from small Houses, and Dorne even sent some supplies and equipment, though never a great quantity. Daenerys wanted to take back Dragonstone, but Jorah did his best to convince her it wasn’t practical as they had no navy. Still, she might have persisted if not for Lord Smallwood’s folly in Stony Sept.

The man proved a traitor, and as soon as Lord Rykker left to take command in Pinkmaiden, Smallwood handed over his city to the Lannisters. Daenerys’ mood became stormy when she heard the news, so much so that Jorah barely dared breath, nevermind speak, lest he attract her wrath. A quick glance at the faces and posture of the others in the room told him they felt the same way. 

Yet, he felt compelled to speak when she spoke of sacking Acorn Hall and executing the rest of the extended House Smallwood in revenge. Daario nodded at her suggestion with such a gleam in his eye that Jorah was certain that he would volunteer to do the deed. Ser Barristan shifted uneasily but stayed silent. Grey said nothing either. So it fell to Jorah to speak. “Your Grace, if I may, those in Acorn Hall are not responsible for the sins of their kinsman. Certainly, it would be wise to watch them closely, but to kill them all… that will only turn the people against you.”

“It is said that treason runs in the blood,” she snapped in response.

“The same is said of madness, my Queen, but we know that is not true,” he dared to say. He felt Ser Barristan stiffen in shock beside him. “Stony Sept will be easy enough to take back, and when Lord Smallwood is captured, he should be punished. But if you kill the extended family of every traitor in Westeros, there will be no one left when it’s done. Surely you know I stood with Lord Stark during Robert’s Revolution, and I imagine my own kin stand with him now. Would you have me killed for that? We need allies, not more enemies, my Queen.” He nearly choked on his own words, imagining what she would do to him if she knew of his true treason.

Daenerys considered what he said for a few moments before responding. “Very well. Daario, take the Second Sons to Acorn Hill. Tell the Smallwoods there that they can join you in recapturing Stony Sept, or they can face the same punishment as their kinsman. If you capture the traitor, I want him brought to me.”

\---

The Smallwoods of Acorn Hill quickly fell into line, and Stony Sept was easily retaken. Yet, Daario did not return directly to Riverrun as he’d been ordered.

Naharis took a portion of his mercenaries on an unapproved raid near Harrenhal instead. He cleared it with no one, only sending a message that he would gift the holdout city to his Queen when he returned, for he had a plan which would make the city’s capture a breeze.

After several days with no word, remnants of his band limped back into the Riverrun, reporting that many of them were casualties and that Daario had been captured. Jorah thought it good riddance though a waste of manpower, but Daenerys became angry and demanded that Jorah try to plan a rescue.

Grey, Ser Barristan, and Jorah spent days gathering intelligence and finally discovered that he was held within the fortified city of Harrenhal, not far from where Jorah had attended the Military Academy. Due to his familiarity, Jorah personally led several missions to scout the area and reported to Daenerys, “The city is heavily fortified. There is no easy way in for a rescue operation. The city does have a very old sewage system, and there might be a way through the pipes, but it would most likely be a suicide mission since we’ve already used a trick like that once to capture Riverrun. Your Grace, I am sorry, but there is no way to even attempt to save him right now without condemning his rescue party to near certain death.” He wanted to add that the cocky fool got what he deserved, and he desperately feared that she would command a mission anyhow, but she only gave him a sad look before moving onto another matter.

A few days later, news of a great battle in Blackwater Bay along with several messages and envoys arrived at her court in Riverrun, and it was this matter that her small council had been discussing when she dismissed all of them but Jorah. 

\---

“Why are you glowering, my bear?” she said once the others had left the room. “Do none of those marriage proposals please you? I thought you’d be happy to know that I don’t consider Daario to be permanent.” She gestured to the papers on the table before her. “So that makes three offers. Who do we need more, Ser, Dorne or Highgarden or mercenaries from Qarth? Who must I sell myself to in order to win the throne?”

She looked regal as she spoke, but Jorah could see through the act. She was distraught. “We need none of them that badly, Khaleesi. We will find another way if they won’t offer their loyalty without such a price attached.”

“But the Lannisters have the upper hand now. You heard the reports, they are rebuilding their air force as we speak! And now that they don’t have to worry about Stannis anymore, they will surely turn on me next. You’ve said yourself many times that we need more weapons, more supplies, ships, planes. Where are we to get them if not from Qarth or with the help of Dorne or Highgarden?”

“You are fighting to sit on the Iron Throne, not to share it, to be subservient even, to some man that you barely know. The Lannisters defeated Stannis, but they suffered crushing losses in the process. It’ll take them quite some time to rebuild their forces. As for the Tyrells, they were loyal to Renly until a few months ago. Look how quickly they changed their tune now that he is dead. And if you decline, I have no doubt that they will offer their daughter to Joffrey or some other would-be king. Such an alliance is worthless if there is no true loyalty.” 

“So not the Tyrells. This Prince Xaro Xhoan Daxos or Quentyn Martell then?” She looked miserable.

Jorah decided on a different approach. “Daenerys,” he said softly, “There was a reason you never wanted me to leave you alone with Quentyn before when you were a Princess. Why would you give up your happiness now that you are Queen? And this Qarthian prince, you know nothing about him and he nothing of you. I may not be the best person to turn to for marital advice, but in my opinion, accepting either offer is setting yourself up for misery.” 

“Mustn’t a Queen place duty before her own happiness from time to time?” 

“Aye, sometimes, but this is too steep a price. We will find another way for you to win back your kingdom, and you will marry whom you please after that.”

“There is only one other direction to turn, Ser, and you have been against it from the start.”

Indeed, he had, but not for the reasons that she thought. “Now that Stannis is gone, things might be different. Ned Stark had declared for Stannis, but I daresay he has reason to hate the Lannisters far more than you. Despite his declaration to Stannis, he’s had ample opportunity to move further into the Riverlands and hasn’t. I suspect that was for a reason. Perhaps now is the time to send an envoy. They’ve declared him King in the North, but even if he won’t bend the knee to you, perhaps he will join you against the Lannisters, and we can deal with the rest later. I think that the Martells will join such an alliance as well.” 

“If he refuses, that means open war with the North too.”

“Aye,” he said thickly, though his mind was concerned with other things. He needed to tell her the truth of his past before she met Ned Stark. He was confident that Stark did not know about the spying for if he did, he would know about Robb and things would already be different, but he certainly knew the rest. 

“Jorah, I know you must dread fighting your old friends and your kin. I promise, I will spare as many as I can if it comes to that.”

  
“I have no friends left in the North, but I thank you for your concern for my kin. It won’t come to that though. You’ll convince him of the justness of your cause.”  _ And I have until then to convince you that I’m not the man I was,  _ he added silently.


	41. Chapter 24 - Selmy-  April 1303 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back... I'm sorry to anyone still reading this for the gap which probably means you forget half of the story by now. My excuses are covid got me down (mentally, not physically, thank God), and then I had a baby and didn't have 5 waking seconds with my hands free for several months.
> 
> I am now a number of chapters ahead that just need some small tweaks, so hopefully I'll be able to get back to fairly regular updates. However, I'm possibly pulling a GRRM and starting to make the plot way too complicated. I promise this is still a Jorah/Daenerys story even if I get temporarily sidetracked with politics and strategy.
> 
> Also, be forewarned, the coming chapters are more inspired by the books than the show.

**Chapter 24 - Selmy- April 1303 AC**

Barristan let out a sigh of relief as he caught sight of the great tower of Winterfell far off in the distance. The journey north had been dangerous with several close calls with Frey and Lannister patrols. Finally clear of that threat, he was uncertain that the Northmen who escorted his small party would honor his flag of truce and truly take him to Ned Stark. Perhaps they would shoot him in the head and leave him in a ditch. The war had regressed to such savagery that little would surprise him. With Winterfell now in sight, he could at last look forward to some warm food, a hot shower, a change of clothes… and most importantly, he could finally make the Queen’s case to Ned Stark. If the new King in the North would listen to reason and bend the knee to Daenerys, it would go a long way towards winning the war and securing a new peace. After over two years of bloodshed, this alliance was the next crucial step, of that, Barristan was certain. 

The day Ser Jaime had broken his oath and shot the King in the back had been chaos. Several of the other Kingsguard had been killed in the initial fighting, and he’d managed to contact Ser Arys, who’d not been at the Red Keep at the time, telling him to escape to Dorne if he could, though he’d heard nothing of him since. It had taken ages to reach Ser Jorah for news of the Princess who was now the Queen, if she lived. Once they had finally connected on the radio, Ser Jorah had cut off the conversation abruptly without truly answering any of the questions about Daenerys’ well-being or precise whereabouts, and Barristan had been unable to connect with him again. He and the remaining troops he’d been able to gather had then holed up in a fortified area of the Red Keep, attempting to hold out for as long as possible, though if Daenerys were dead, it was all in vain. He attempted to contact Ser Jorah repeatedly, but when he continued to be met by static, he feared the worst for the girl. Late that night, surrounded by dead and wounded, bleeding from a gunshot wound himself, and with his position flooded with flames and tear gas, it had become impossible to hold out any longer, and Barristan and his remaining men had surrendered. 

His wound had been treated in the dungeons by a maester who did not speak a word despite his questions. He was held in a relatively comfortable cell- one with an actual bed and a small window which let in a sliver of light- with no other contact aside from meals for several days before Lord Varys came to him with the news that Daenerys was dead, and he’d be allowed to resume his post if he simply took an oath to the newly crowned King Robert. 

“King Robert values your experience and admires your devotion to your duty. He will not hold your old loyalties against you if you’ll recognize that it is a lost cause now. Your duty has been and always will be to the King, and Robert sits the Iron Throne now,” the Spider had told him. 

Still, he had not capitulated immediately. It had taken a trip to Blackhaven where he saw the burned out barn and heard accounts from the townspeople first hand to convince him, for their accounts matched that of Varys’ source. He broke no vows in pledging loyalty to the Baratheon line, he’d told himself, for all the Targaryens were dead… dead on his watch for he had failed in his sworn duty. 

In his years of service to the Targaryens, as Aerys sunk deeper and deeper into madness, he’d come to despise the King he served, but he’d never forgotten the oath he’d made when he’d joined the Kingsguard decades ago and thus never strayed from his duty to serve, obey and protect him, even if it meant staying silent and stone-faced while witnessing torturous punishments and executions of enemies, real and imagined, or when witnessing his treatment of his own wife. He had not been present in the throne room when Jaime had killed the King, but nonetheless, it was one of his men, one of his sworn brothers who had done it, and thus, the failure was still his. 

“I hope you protect me better than the Mad King,” Robert had roared with a laugh after he’d taken his new oath and been presented a white cape for the second time in his life, but he’d failed in that as well. Robert was dead within a few weeks, killed in a hunting accident, for the man continued to hunt and drink and party and whore even as the realm was ripped apart by civil war, leaving Barristan to serve young King Joffrey, a boy as cruel and sadistic as Viserys could have ever been, a boy Stannis and Renly and Ned Stark declared a bastard. Months into his service to this boy who had a madness of his own, he learned that Daenerys lived, but by then he could not hope to keep one oath without breaking the other.  _ Though if Mormont had simply told me the truth of the situation on the radio that day, I might have made my way to her sooner _ , he reasoned later. 

\---

When he’d been dismissed by Cersei and Joffrey, freed of his conflicting vows, he’d immediately made an escape for Stony Sept determined to right his wrongs. When he found her, Daenerys was no longer the timid girl he’d seen about the Red Keep. She now radiated confidence and power. She was a true Queen, and he witnessed for the first time in his life someone he thought might be a just and loved monarch, someone he could be proud to serve. 

He saw how the commoners in Pinkmaiden and Stone Hedge and the countryside throughout the Riverlands had loved her and hailed her as their mother and the breaker of chains once they gave her a chance, once they realized she and her brown skinned Unsullied had freed them from the tyrannical grip of the likes of Gregor Clegane and the Brave Companions, once they believed that she would give them some autonomy over their own lives. 

He saw how she refused to act with the ruthlessness and barbarity of some of the other parties in this war. An artillery barrage might have shortened the siege of Harrenhal, but she’d refused. She did not want to risk innocent lives being lost as collateral damage.

And he saw the righteousness of her anger when the besieged defenders of Harrenhal began executing prisoners and throwing them down from the walls. At first, it had been soldiers, Tully men and men from the Second Sons who’d been captured along with Daario, but then perhaps as a mockery to the gentle hearted “Breaker of Chains,” they began to kill women and children, smallfolk conscripted from the countryside into forced labor to build up Harrenhal’s defenses as Daenerys’ army approached. The sight of the children’s broken bodies had nearly made him weep. Barristan had tried to shield Daenerys from the gruesome view, for it was not something a gentle Lady should see, but she’d insisted. “I will see them,” she’d declared. “I will see every one, and count them, and look upon their faces. And I will remember.”

Yes, he was certain, he could be proud to serve in her Queensguard, even though she had not yet given him a white cloak or heard his oath, for she did not entirely trust him. 

It was true, he had served the Baratheons and Lannisters after her father, but he thought that not the lone reason for her distrust. At times, it seemed that there was nothing he could do to prove his loyalty when her chief advisor gruffly stated his paranoid suspicions of near every man in her court. For much to his dismay, by the time he’d arrived, Ser Jorah Mormont had already entrenched himself as her top advisor and general, and nothing seemed to be able to shake him from the spot at her right side. 

Despite his best efforts to respect this new chain of command and the wishes of the Queen, and despite his grudging respect that Ser Jorah had succeeded in protecting his charge where he had failed, Barristan could not overlook Ser Jorah’s many faults, both past and present. Both were sworn knights, but Ser Jorah had disgraced the title. Nor had they come upon their knighthood in the same way. Barristan had been raised for knighthood from childhood, squiring for Ser Manfred Swann from his tenth name day until the day he entered the Military Academy. Ser Manfred had trained him in chivalry and honor and the virtues of the Seven as much as in the art of war. Ser Jorah had earned his knighthood on the battlefield. Yet, unchivalrous and Godless men could perform admirably amidst the carnage and chaos of war. That did not make one a true knight. No doubt, Ser Jorah had shown great valor during the Greyjoy Rebellion and he’d been highly decorated during his time in Astapor as well, but that said nothing of his character outside of wartime. He’d lost his lordship and should have lost his head. It was a pity his knighthood could not be revoked.

He had not known Ser Jorah personally in his life prior to exile, and he was hesitant to believe  _ all  _ of the many rumors that maligned him, mainly out of respect for his Lord father. Yet, his own father  _ had _ disowned him, and weren’t most rumors based in truth, especially when they were so persistent? It was said he’d gotten his first wife with child and then only married her because Jeor made him. It was said that his unit had been involved in atrocities, covered up in public but well known within high ranking military circles, in Astapor when he’d been a young lieutenant. It was said that Ser Jorah, a widower over a decade her senior, had deflowered the young, naive Lady Lynesse after a drunken evening following his knighting and thus forced Lord Hightower’s hand to accept marriage as the only way to save his daughter’s honor. It was said that he was a drunk with a short temper during his time with the Wolfswood Regiment, and that was before he had deserted his post and fled with no honor rather than face a just punishment for his abhorrent behavior towards Lynesse and whatever else it was that he’d done to bring Ned Stark’s wrath down upon him- and Barristan was convinced he must have done something else even more terrible that he chose to run. 

His life in Essos was possibly even worse though the details were murky. According to Varys, the man had spent time as a mercenary both in the disputed lands on the Rhoyne and with the Dothraki. A true knight was meant to protect and serve, not sell his sword to the highest bidder, nor would one ever fight in the ranks of such a murderous warlord as Khal Drogo. 

When Ser Jorah had been given his position at the Red Keep, Barristan was furious that he hadn’t been consulted on the appointment. If even a fraction of the rumors were true, he wasn’t worthy of the position, and he had watched him carefully for any sign of dereliction of duty. Though Ser Jorah had done his duty to the Princess far better than Barristan had expected with only a few minor discretions of decorum- and a major conspiracy with her to conceal her marriage and subsequent pregnancy- he did nothing to dissuade him of his preconceived opinions of his lack of honor.

In the present, Ser Jorah was sullen, insolent, suspicious, prideful, and far too familiar with the Queen. He dared to debate and argue and bicker with her as if she was his woman and not his monarch. He even called her by her name on occasion. The Queen seemed to give him leave to do it, but he should have known better. It was not fitting. Barristan thought he may have even been in love with her though he heard from some of the men that he’d sent for a young, blonde whore after the Battle of Riverrun, so perhaps it was just lust. Either way, he didn’t even have the decency to hide it when he gazed upon her. Such a man had no place in such a high and prominent position, though the Queen seemed oblivious to the many problems that he presented. If Ser Jorah had any honor left at all, he’d stand aside for the Queen’s own good. 

Barristan brought this up just once, suggesting to Mormant that if he was truly the Queen’s loyal servant and cared for her long term success, he should take a less conspicuous position and return to Essos when the war was won, for his sullied reputation would not help the Queen’s own efforts to make alliances with the many old houses of Westeros or to establish herself as a legitimate and just ruler.

“You’re not Lord Commander here, I am,” Ser Jorah had replied brusquely. “And I take my orders from the Queen.”

_ Lord Commander, and likely to be her Hand as well _ , Barristan thought.  _ You have positioned yourself nicely.  _ Barristan wondered if the disgraced Northman didn’t realize that his position would make alliances with the Great Houses difficult or if he simply didn’t care. _ Would you take advantage of the Queen’s loyalty for your own gain, even if it brings her down in the end?  _

Thankfully, though clearly fond of Mormont, the Queen at least did not return his amorous feelings, though she’d chosen someone perhaps just as bad in the sellsword, Daario Naharis. Naharis seemed a short term solution though, even before his foolish capture, and had never influenced Daenerys the way Mormont was able to.

Yet, if the man was still a drunk, he hid it well, and if he was still seeking out the company of whores, he did so discreetly. And if he had once fled a coward rather than face the death due to him, that trait vanished when it came to Daenerys. 

No, Barristan did not like Ser Jorah Mormont, nor could he overlook his many flaws, but he had to admit that he had come to respect him as a soldier. It was Daenerys who inspired her men to fight for her cause, but it was Ser Jorah who put together most of the plans to win the battles and who plunged into the thick of things to rally the troops. If he had a fault as a general aside from his pride, it was that he was too eager to head to the front lines. 

And Barristan also had to admit that a lesser man might have rubbed in the change of positions a bit more and perhaps lorded his new authority over Barristan given what had previously transpired between them. Aside from a few snide remarks about his age and about the soft life he’d led at the palace, Mormont did not let any grudge he may have held affect his interactions with him. All the while, he was far more level headed than Naharis or Lord Darry, and the young Unsullied general clearly looked up to him. And, of course, he had succeeded in doing his duty in one area where Barristan had failed for he had somehow saved the Queen’s life against great odds. He’d gotten the details from young Gendry, now promoted to corporal, who’d been with them in Blackhaven. Whether out of love or lust or duty or desperation or some combination of all of the above, Ser Jorah was undoubtedly devoted to the Queen. And she did seem to listen to his usually sound reasoning, which went a long way in countering her sometimes impulsive nature.

It was Ser Jorah who had succeeded in convincing her to move on from her initial obsession with taking back Dragonstone, the place of her birth and the place of her mother’s death, noting that it gave them little in terms of strategic value especially with no ships to help hold it. 

It was also he who had urged her in his gruff way to stay away from an alliance with Meereen after Hizdahr zo Loraq, the latest tyrant to rule the beleaguered lands, offered ships, tanks, and access to oil and other precious resources in exchange for her support of his own claim. 

“No good can come from anything in Slaver’s Bay,” Ser Jorah had told her, “And we certainly have no men to spare him.” 

But as the hope of forthcoming alliances with Dorne or the Reach faded, Mormont’s advice lost its soundness.

There was still the possibility of securing the alliance through marriage, Barristan reminded Mormont as they debated their next step before the Queen arrived for a council meeting. Mormont had responded with a scowl.

“It’s the burden of power, Ser Jorah. Do you think Prince Doran married for love, or Ned Stark? Rhaegar barely knew Elia when they were betrothed. Perhaps the Lord of a small house can marry for love, or lust, but the Queen cannot do the same.” 

Mormont had turned red and growled, “Are you speaking of someone in particular, Selmy?”

“I speak in generalities, Ser. Quentyn Martell is a perfectly suitable match. As Robb had been, even if her father would have been furious. She could grow to love him. And she must marry eventually. She needs an heir.”

“She cannot-,” Mormont fumbled before angrily retorting, “What do you know of love, old man?” 

_ If only you knew _ , he thought sadly, for he had loved, once. But there was no point bringing that up. “Then we must go to the North.”

“Mayhaps,” the younger man had muttered, his face dark, “But I have an idea to run by the Queen first.”

Mormont had remained strangely resistant to the idea of making an alliance with the North, but he was slowly coming around to the inevitability of it. However, he was adamant that Daenerys must find a way to go to them from a position of power, not as equals or Stark would never give up his own crown. They had debated this for days, and the Queen held out on a decision, as determined as her bear knight to not acknowledge Stark’s claim of King in the North. 

But she grew impatient with the lack of allies, with the extended siege, and perhaps with Ser Jorah’s insolence in general, and of late, she had pushed back against his forwardness more and more to the point that she had scolded him in council meetings on several occasions.  _ At last, she asserts herself against her bear knight as she has with everyone else. Now she is truly a Queen _ , Barristan thought as he’d observed their more recent interactions

On this day, she had said they must make a final decision- an alliance through marriage or going North without an extra bargaining chip. This led to Ser Jorah’s idea, which was as bad a plan as Barristan had ever heard.

“I’ve had word from the Dothraki Khal Rakharo. He wishes to make an alliance, Khaleesi. In fact, he and his people seek refuge in Westeros,” he said several minutes into the meeting, using that damned disrespectful nickname he had for her. 

Much to Barristan’s chagrin, the Queen’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. Barristan wanted nothing to do with the Dothraki. They were terrorists and war criminals as far as he was concerned, yet the Queen had a fascination with them, a fascination which Ser Jorah had apparently nourished by telling her of his adventures on the Grass Sea and teaching her their language. 

“Your Grace, I don’t know that the people will embrace anyone who brings a Dothraki horde to Westeros. They are known for wreaking havoc wherever they go, raping and enslaving those they don’t kill. They rarely abide by the rules of war of civilized nations. Dothraki riders tearing through the Crownlands will win you no friends,” he said respectfully hoping to appeal to her gentler side. She was called the Breaker of Chains for a reason.

“Gregor Clegane already rapes and pillages his way through Westeros. As did the men who hold Harrenhal until we hedged them in. As does Euron Greyjoy and dozens of bands of outlaws. There will be blood on your hands in the end if you wish to win back your father’s throne, Your Grace. Rakharo could bring thousands of men which would give you the upper hand in negotiations with Lord Stark,” Ser Jorah countered. “And you’ll find few warriors anywhere else who can fight so fiercely in the roughest of conditions.”

“Better to hire more sellswords. The Golden Company, perhaps. They have no honor, but they’re far more reliable to do as they’re commanded if the coin is right,” argued Barristan. Ser Jorah bristled at those words. He had been a sellsword once.

Daenerys looked between the two before saying, “He has a point, Ser Jorah. I must have men who will follow my commands, and it seems rather unlikely that the Dothraki will. I am not Gregor Clegane or Euron Greyjoy. I will not have innocents raped and murdered so that I might be Queen.” 

“We haven’t the coin for such a thing, but even so, clearly the noble Ser Barristan knows little of sellswords. If it’s perfect obedience you want, Daenerys, you might as well buy yourself a slave army from Yunkai or Astapor,” Mormont answered, his voice dripping with cynicism. 

The Queen’s small hand flashed and cracked Ser Jorah across the face. Everyone froze, save Ser Jorah who slowly raised his hand to his cheek.

“If I have displeased my Queen-” he began carefully.

“You have,” she declared, her eyes flashing with anger, “If you suggest I do something as vile as buy slaves, or invite an army to my lands to rape and pillage and enslave.”

“As Your Grace wishes,” Mormont said, lowering his eyes. “I’ll see if I can make contact with the Golden Company to find out their price.”

Daenerys sighed before speaking again, this time more softly. “No, you are right, we haven’t the coin. What do you know of Khal Rakharo, Jorah?”

“He currently commands about 5,000 fighting men, my Queen,” Mormont said, still speaking carefully. “I knew him in Khal Drogo’s khalasar. He is young to be a khal, but he is a strong fighter, and intelligent. And he was curious about Westerosi culture while most viewed us with disdain. After Drogo died, the khalasar fractured. A warrior named Moro gained the upper hand and the most followers. Moro is intent on destroying his rivals, killing all the men and enslaving the women and children. You could save Rakharo’s people by allowing them to come to Westeros. They would be in your debt and thus may be convinced to obey Your Grace’s every command.”

_ This is madness _ , Barristan thought. This would  _ lose _ the Queen allies in Westeros. None of the houses, great or small, would welcome Dothraki in such numbers.

It was Lord Darry who spoke up. “What would you do with the women and children? You say there are 5,000 warriors. There must be more than twice that number of civilians. Where would you put them if they decide to stay when the war is over? They don’t speak our language. They know nothing of our customs. They have slaves.”

“They’ll learn the language and customs and free their slaves if they’re told to do so,” Mormont answered with a shrug, seemingly recovered from his brief humiliation. “And Westeros has lost enough men in this war. There were several thousand dead between the two sides at Riverrun and hundreds more in our other battles. How many will die at Harrenhal before it falls? And how many are said to have perished at Blackwater Bay? 20,000 or more on Stannis’ side alone? There will be more than enough land in need of repopulation when all is done. And if you recall, many in Westeros view the Unsullied as savages as well, but we know that is not the case.”

The Unsullied general, who rarely voiced an opinion in meetings, nodded in agreement.

Daenerys sighed and turned away from her advisors. “Leave me, please. All of you but Ser Jorah. Jorah, I will speak to you alone.”

So Barristan had no choice but to hope that the Queen would see for herself the folly of such a disastrous alliance and only wished to scold her general further. But when he inquired about the decision to Mormont later, he said they’d have to wait and see how the negotiations went before blowing by him. And the negotiations did continue, though without his participation. 

A few weeks later, Daenerys called her full council together.

“The Dothraki under Khal Rakharo will come to Westeros and join our cause. In exchange for their service, they may stay in Westeros when the war is won if they choose. Or, if they’d prefer, the government of Westeros will support Rakharo on the world stage in his efforts to return to the Dothraki Sea and create a new society there. He will not be held accountable for the crimes of Khal Drogo and Khal Moro. Rakharo wishes to improve the esteem of his people in the eyes of the rest of the world, and this will be the first step. I have made it clear that there are no slaves in Westeros, and that our soldiers do not rape or pillage. He and his men will be under  _ my  _ command. He has agreed to those terms.”

Barristan highly doubted that all of their warriors would follow these terms, but he was astonished by what Daenerys said next.

“As you know, the Dothraki and Qarth have been fighting for decades. I have communicated with Prince Xaro that Khal Rakharo’s khalasar will leave his city in peace if he assists in the transport of the Dothraki to Westeros. He has agreed and also has gifted us several warships, planes, and helicopters and loaned us a dozen more. The ships will not be enough to match the Iron Fleet, but it should be more than sufficient to overwhelm any ships that the Lannisters might have and to control much of the Narrow Sea on the east coast. As for the planes, they may make all the difference.”

“But, surely, Your Grace, Rakharo’s khalasar was no threat to Qarth given their own troubles with Moro,” Barristan said, unsure if he was understanding the Queen correctly.

“You and I know that, but Prince Xaro does not,” she said regally. 

So she had tricked him.  _ Seven help us if he ever finds out _ , he thought.

She glanced at Ser Jorah and then turned back to him. “So now, Ser Barristan, we can go to Ned Stark from a position of strength. I have the Unsullied under my control. Rakharo provides 5,000 men along with weapons, trucks, and horses, and Qarth has promised planes and a small navy, and with it, an open supply line. We will tell Lord Stark to drop the pretense of his own crown, bend the knee, and join me as we defeat a common enemy, the one that killed his eldest son who was my husband. After we take Harrenhal, we  _ will  _ take Harrenhal, we will crush the Frey’s from the south while Stark converges on the Twins from the North and then he will march on King’s Landing with me as an obedient vassal should when called, or I will crush him next.”

“Your Grace, I don’t know if it will be as easy as that,” Barristan said. “There are decades of bad blood between Targaryen and Stark, and the North has yearned for independence for centuries. They are not likely to want to give it up easily, even with such a show of strength, now that they think they have reclaimed their kingdom. Threatening them is likely to backfire.”

Barristan was surprised to learn that Daenerys, despite her Northman husband and Northman chief advisor, was not aware of much of the history. He glanced at Ser Jorah, and the two of them filled her in. They told of the romance between Lyanna Stark and Robert Baratheon, the alleged actions of Rhaeger after a party at Harrenhal, the resulting fistfight between Brandon Stark and the Prince, and the punishment inflicted on Brandon for daring to strike a member of the royal family as a result.

“He was burned to death, Your Grace, despite your brother’s pleas to your father to pardon him,” Barristan told her gravely. 

“Near war followed,” added Ser Jorah, “And Lyanna Stark died. The cause of death was never made public, but those on the side of Robert and the Starks said it was from the trauma of rape.” 

_ You and your house included _ , thought Barristan.

“But Rhaeger was no rapist! And he was betrothed to Elia at the time. He loved her,” Daenerys argued indignantly.

“Your brother denied it to the end,” Barristan reassured her.

“It was before you were born, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said gruffly, “And young men can do foolish things, particularly after drunken parties when they face a marriage to a near stranger not of their choosing. Your brother was older and wiser when you knew him, and his love for his Lady wife surely grew over time. In any case, Robert and Brandon certainly thought it was so, and whether he raped her or not, he _ did _ ask her for the first dance when she was betrothed to Robert.”

Ser Jorah continued, “As you can imagine, the bad blood between the Starks and Targaryens which has gone back for centuries only worsened after this. I don’t know if Robb was somehow unaware or simply didn’t care, but he is the exception, not the rule. It is a shame that Robb died before he had a chance to tell his father about you. We can’t be certain that Ned will believe it now.” 

“That is why you will come with me, since you were witness to our vows,” she said.

“Neither of us should go, my Queen. Vassals travel to pledge allegiance to their lieges, not the other way around. You’d look a beggar traveling all the way to him.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing the wisdom of his words, which Barristan agreed with for a change. ”But why can’t you go as my envoy?”

“Lord Stark will not be pleased to see me,” the fugitive said.

“But surely you’ve been gone long enough that he won’t still hold a grudge!” she exclaimed.

“The North remembers, Khaleesi,” he’d said. “If you send me, I’ll likely be returned to you short a head. Better he doesn’t even know I’m with you at all until an agreement is reached. Better to send someone like Ser Barristan.  _ His _ honor is beyond reproach.” 

Barristan thought he heard scorn in the tone of his last sentence. But it was agreed. The next day, Barristan would travel to the North with a small party of enlisted men under a flag of truce to win over Ned Stark with a friendly but firm message. Daenerys and the rest of her court would stay in the town of Darry and continued to oversee the siege of Harrenhal. 

“Stark will honor your flag, but you already know that,” Mormont had said as Barristan climbed into the truck that would take him part of the way. “It’s the others you need to worry about. Best if you can make it to White Harbor since we don’t know who controls the garrison at Moat Cailin. Old Manderly will honor your flag for certain as will the Glovers and Reeds. I’d be wary of the Karstarks and Umbers though, and if you see the Flayed Man, run the other way if you can. Bolton’s men are as likely to beat you half to death if they don’t shoot you on sight before listening to a word you have to say. Given your route, you may encounter Cerwyn men, though their uniforms are hard to distinguish from Stark’s if you can’t see the patch. The sigil is a black axe on silver.”

_ I know his sigil _ , thought Barristan, though he did not voice his exasperation.  _ I was Lord Commander once myself and know even the Northern arms. _

“He’s a cunt who likes the sound of his own voice,” Mormont continued gruffly and far more coarsely than he would dare speak before the Queen, “But he’s a coward who won’t defy Stark’s hospitality. And remember, best to keep me out of this for now. None of the Northmen need to know I’m here until after Stark’s bent the knee to Daenerys. No need to piss off the honorable Eddard unnecessarily.” 

Mormont practically spat the last sentence.  _ He speaks as if honor is a bad thing. _

Barristan’s small party traveled carefully to avoid the Lannisters and Freys who still controlled the northern parts of the Riverlands.  _ I’m too old for this _ , he thought as he slogged through the mud and melting slush after they had to abandon their truck to avoid detection.  _ Perhaps Mormont is right. I’ve grown soft serving in the palace all these years,  _ he thought as his party slithered on their stomachs through underbrush to bypass a roadblock.

As Kingsguard, he’d been a staff officer during the operations in Astapor and spent only a week in Slaver’s Bay when he’d been one of Prince Rhaegar’s guards. He was Lord Commander by the time the Greyjoy Rebellion came about, the chief general of the armies. Mormont seemed to hold that against him. Perhaps he thought some of his planning had gotten friends killed. It had been near four decades since he’d been on the front lines of a combat zone prior to all of this.  _ I’m in the thick of it now though _ , he thought, as he curled up in his sleeping bag in the middle of some freezing bog several nights later.  _ Spring, indeed,  _ he thought as he drifted into an uneasy sleep.  _ Why would anyone choose to live in the North? _

Despite their precautions, they were spotted well short of White Harbor. He and his party advanced with hands held high and white banner flapping in the wind rather than try to run. He was able to make out the Cerwyn patch just moments before being shoved roughly to his knees in the spring snow. He felt the cold metal of a gun on the back of his head as several of the sergeants debated his fate.  _ So this is how it will end _ , he thought, sure that he would be executed. 

Instead, he and his men were bound and blindfolded and thrown into the back of a truck, and he was jostled on the floor of the truck bed for what seemed to be hours. When the truck finally stopped and his blindfold was removed, he was presented to a man whom he assumed to be Lord Cerwyn.

“It was a mistake for you to come to the North, Ser Barristan. Folly more than boldness,” the man said scornfully.

“I come under a flag of truce, my Lord,” Barristan said calmly. “I’ve been sent to parley with Lord Stark.”

“King Eddard to you,” the man snapped. “Is your Targaryen bitch fearful to come herself?”

“Queen Daenerys has sent me on her behalf,” he replied in an even tone.

“I should send her back your head.”

“As I said, I come under a flag of truce. I’ve known Eddard Stark for years. I imagine he would like to hear what I have to say.”

“We’ll see about that,” Lord Cerwyn said, a flustered look on his face. “Hold them here. If anyone runs, shoot him,” he said to the men guarding him before walking away.

_ Mormont is right _ , Barristan thought.  _ This man is all talk.  _

A short while later, he and his men were given water and his hands were unbound, though his men’s were not, and they were loaded into another truck. Still, he remained tense until at last, the outskirts of Winterfell came into view. Once there, he was escorted into the Great Hall of Winterfell.

“My Lord,” Ser Barristan began with a slight bow, “Thank you for seeing me. It is good to see you well after all this time.”

Several of the other Northern Lords grumbled at the slight of his address, but Eddard Stark greeted him graciously. “Ser Barristan, you are most welcome though you’ll find my title has changed. I am happy to see you have survived the war thus far.”

They spoke amicably enough for a time, although Stark would not immediately acknowledge Daenerys as the rightful Queen. “I have reason to make common cause with you though. Robert was blind to it all, but the Lannisters are my enemies as much as your Queen’s,” Lord Stark said. “They’ve killed my wife and eldest son and hold my daughter, Sansa, hostage even now. But if you wish to make an alliance, if you think I might even consider kneeling to your Queen, I must know something about your situation. Your men must be loyal. No doubt, Lord Varys has managed to find someone on the inside, but, alas, he is in King’s Landing and espionage has never been my strength. Little information from your lines has made it to mine aside from the fact that you command the Unsullied. So tell me of your military situation, Lord Commander. I assume your Queen defers to you on those matters given her age and lack of experience.” 

Best to keep me out of it, Mormont had said.  _ But did he say that for the Queen’s benefit or for his own _ ? Barristan mused. Perhaps the truth would be better for Daenerys in the long run. Perhaps it would lessen Mormont’s harmful influence. 

“I am on her council, my Lord, and she takes my advice along with others, but I am not her Lord Commander,” he answered honestly. “I was too late to join her.” 

“Is that so? Then who is? I’d not heard of any other experienced military men with her. Surely, she hasn’t made one of her Unsullied the general of all her armies.”

“Ser Jorah Mormont now holds the position. He was with her during the attempt on her life and ever since, and thus, she has a fondness for him,” he said after only a brief hesitation. “I believe you knew him well once.”

At this, several of the other Lords muttered darkly. Ned Stark’s face grew stern. “I had heard he was back in Westeros for a time, but I’d assumed him dead or back to Essos. You say your Queen is just and merciful with a gentle heart. There is a warrant for his head. Does she know what he did before fleeing to Essos? Do you?”

_ And finally, the truth _ , Barristan thought. “We are both aware of the incident with Lady Lynesse, and of his subsequent flight and desertion, which warranted a death sentence. If he committed another offense, I am unaware of it. I have my misgivings, but the Queen has great trust in him because he’s been at her side longer than any of the others. She will be a great Queen, but she is still young and influenced by those with whom she is familiar. Perhaps if one of the Great Houses came to her cause, if someone like you were available, she would elevate another more worthy and more experienced to his position, though I must admit, he’s been a very capable officer.”  _ Perhaps for the loyalty of the North, she will put her bear aside _ , he thought.

“Desertion was the least of his crimes. Jorah Mormont fled to avoid death for a crime he’d already committed. I daresay he has misrepresented himself to you as well as to your Queen if she is all that you claim she is and still trusts him and honors him with such a position. Have a seat, Ser Barristan, and I will tell you all.”


	42. Winterfell - February 1292 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place a few weeks after the chapter entitled "Accused."

** _Winterfell - February 1292 AC_ **

  
  


_ Jorah had re-polished his shoes and the brass of his buttons and belt buckle of his uniform as if his life depended on it, as if he was a plebe at the Academy again, as if a perfect uniform might allow him to remain invisible and save him. As if that would matter, and not his words- _

_ “You really need to give that boy a hiding for not doing his job properly,” Lynesse’s voice had cut loudly through his dark thoughts. “Or have Tom do it if you haven’t the stomach to do it yourself.”  _

_ “What?” he’d asked in confusion, looking up to where she still lay in their bed, watching him. It wasn’t yet dawn. He had thought she was still asleep. _

_ “That stableboy who you insist on letting be your squire. It’s his responsibility to keep your uniform neat, is it not? So why are you having to fix his work? It isn’t lordly, polishing and buffing and the like.” _

_ Asher  _ had  _ done a rather poor job of it. He was wonderful with the horses and a quick study when Jorah taught him the art of hunting, shooting, and the like, but the boy was relatively new to polishing and easily bored by the task. Still, Lynesse was forever finding fault with him. “She’s heard the rumors that he’s your bastard,” Dacey had told him bluntly one day when Jorah had wondered aloud about it. Jorah had dismissed it as ridiculous. Asher was clearly not his son, and besides, Lynesse had never had a conversation with any of the commoners on the Island to have heard any of their foolish rumors, never mind this one. She did seem to hate him though. _

_ “Love, must we get into this right now? Asher does a fine job, I’m just double-checking is all, seeing as I’m the one who will be wearing it, seeing as I’m the one on trial. You did send Lord Stark your new statement, right? I wish you’d let me see it before-” _

_ Lynesse had stood up from the bed and walked towards where he sat, and the beauty of her naked body had taken his breath away just as it did every time he looked upon her. _

_ “It isn’t a proper trial, you said it was just a preliminary hearing, that he just wants to clear things up.” She’d paused. “You promise you won’t humiliate and dishonor me, don’t you, my handsome bear?” Lynesse had asked sweetly, though Jorah thought he heard a trace of worry in her voice before she reached out for him, wrapping her arms around his neck so that her pert breasts were inches from his face, and her touch made him think of nothing but how he might soothe that worry… and how he desired to touch her back, with his mouth, preferably, on her nipples which were hard in the chilly air- but he quickly forced that idea from his mind because he truly did not have time for what that would lead to. _

_ “I’ve told you I won’t, but I must still defend myself,” Jorah had answered thickly, doing his best to meet her eyes even as they flickered back to what was right in front of him, even as his hands went automatically to her hips and her behind. “He’s my liege Lord. If he finds me guilty, well, where would that leave us? It would be easier if you’d let me see your new statement so that I could match-” _

_ “I didn’t make a copy, but I told him you did no wrong and the Gold Cloak misconstrued my words. Jorah, I promise I didn’t say those terrible things about you to the detective. I had calmed down by then. You needn’t worry though, you could appeal to the King if Lord Stark is unreasonable. I will tell my father to speak to the King on your behalf if it comes to that. Father knows it was all just a misunderstanding.” _

_ Jorah had frowned at that. “You know King Aerys is despised in the North. The people will think I have no honor at all if I appeal to him over the ruling of a Stark.” He’d forced his hands back to his side and stood quickly, giving her a deep kiss before tearing his mouth away. “But I must go now, love, I’m running late already. I should be home by tomorrow afternoon as long as the weather holds.”  _

_ And though he was nearly sick with nerves, he’d tried to focus on the taste of her kiss and the promise it held as he’d left his chambers. _

_ He’d filled several thermoses with coffee in the kitchen and was headed out the main door when a voice startled him. _

_ _

_ “Safe travels, brother, and good fortune. Mind your manners with Lord Stark.” _

_ “I’ll not grovel to him, Dacey,” he’d replied brusquely. _

_ “No one is asking you to grovel, Jorah. Here we stand. But we can do so because we are backed by honor and the truth. Tell him the truth. You did nothing wrong, for once. He’ll believe you. Besides, there’s a reason no Lord has been found guilty under Robert’s statutes in the eight years they’ve existed. Your word still holds more weight than hers. But lose your temper and speak foolishness as you have been with all of us these past weeks and you may be the first.” _

_ “You always have the answer to everything, don’t you? You forget I’m in this mess to begin with because of you, because you had to call in the report and couldn’t wait for her to cool down, because you had to do your bloody duty rather than back your own kin.” And with that, he’d stormed out of the keep, ignoring Dacey’s protests, and headed for the harbor to begin his journey to Winterfell. _

  
  


_ \--- _

_ In the days immediately following her accusations, Lynesse herself had been sweeter than at any time that Jorah could recall since their honeymoon. While she had never outright apologized for what she’d done or told him that she had been wrong, she was far more docile than usual. One night as they lay between the sheets, she’d begun to sob for no apparent reason. At long last, when Jorah had managed to calm her, she’d whispered, “My sweet bear, I know that you do your best to be a good husband, but you must understand how hard it’s been for me here. I never meant for all of this to happen.” And his heart had broken to see her tears, for he’d felt that he’d failed her as a husband.  _

_ Yet, despite his wife’s improved temperament, a cloud continued to hang over his head. While Lynesse had told him that she had asked for the charges to be dropped and that the Gold Cloak detective had twisted her words for she hadn’t even made half of the accusations in the report that Jorah had seen, the investigation remained open, and he’d heard the whispers following him both on Bear Island and in Deepwood Motte as he went about his business.  _

_ The Monday after the incident, his colonel had called him into his office and given him a tongue lashing for disgracing himself and the regiment. “You’ve embarrassed us, Captain. You’re making me regret pushing for the damned detainee camp to be built on your worthless island instead of at Cerwyn Castle. Gods dammit, Mormont, how are we supposed to instill discipline in the men when one of my captains can’t control his temper with Lady Hightower?”  _

Her name is Lady Mormont _ , he’d wanted to answer, but he’d bit his tongue and stayed silent.  _

_ It had been no consolation when Robett Glover, a major in the regiment, had clapped him sympathetically on the back later that same day. “The truth will prevail, Jorah,” he’d said kindly. “My mother asked if I thought it was true, but she and I both know you’d never do such a thing. I reminded Mother that Sarra surely would have told me if you’d been anything but kind to her, but she’d never had a single bad thing to say in all your years of marriage.”  _

_ The papers and especially the tabloids had mercilessly published every juicy detail they could find or make up- “Lord Mormont Keeps Sex Slaves; Beats Hightower Wife When She Complains” read one gossip rag’s headline. “Lynesse Hightower: Raped and Forced into Abusive Marriage to Bear Lord” screamed another. Although none dared set foot on Bear Island, he’d found himself bombarded by paparazzi when he left the regimental headquarters and the Gold Cloaks’ station in Deepwood Motte.  _

_ He could not understand how a press that could never print a negative word about a High Lord had become so bold with him. It led him to suspect that Lynesse had not, in fact, cleared things up with her father at all. Most of the tabloids were published in the South- Northmen did not condone such nonsense although they certainly seemed to read it when it pertained to him- and the most vicious headlines came from publications based in the Reach which surely Lord Hightower could have stopped if he’d wanted to.  _

_ Still, the Northern papers were not kind. One of them quoted an anonymous Bear Islander who called him an arrogant drunk with a temper and another who called him less than half the Lord that Jeor had been. “House Mormont and Bear Island, when thought of at all, have long been known for discipline, loyalty, and strength, but Lord Jeor has been gone to the Wall for nearly a decade now. These accusations may be just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the problems brought on by the younger Lord Mormont on the otherwise insignificant island that guards the far northwest shores of the realm,” the article concluded. Jorah had sworn that if he found out the anonymous sources, he’d have them flogged.  _

_ To top it all off, he had not found a solution to his money woes. Even before the fight, he’d raised various taxes and fees- for docking, for hunting, for gas and electric, for access to his forests for firewood, for nearly everything he could think of- as much as he dared, but Bear Islanders as a whole were poor. If he raised them much more, his people would freeze and starve or rebel. Yet, these increases brought in a pittance. He’d also agreed to the construction of a military detainee camp in a remote part of the western side of the island which would house insurgents from the Iron Islands and Mountain Clans and the occasional raiders from the Free States. In the end, it had not brought in much save the set price the government had paid for the land, for the flimsy barracks and mess hall which surely did little to keep out the winter winds were finished in no time and the engineers and extra workers that built them and frequented the local store and the pub vanished at its completion. Now it was simply an eyesore in the midst of the otherwise serene forest and another tedious responsibility.  _

_ Nor could he cut many more costs. He’d let the chef from Oldtown go as well as the extra maid he’d brought on just for Lynesse. He’d given embarrassingly small Starnight bonuses to the servants and household guard in December. He could not completely eliminate his staff and still call himself a Lord, never mind the fact that Lynesse would never stand for it, nor could he cut their salaries, or his situation would become too obvious. It had been bad enough selling off half the horses. He’d made sacrifices of his own as well. He’d started taking short, cold showers to save a few coppers on gas and he’d begun buying a cheaper brand of whiskey than the one he preferred. He’d canceled his subscription to many of the sports channels that he’d gotten on television and while he still had steaks and southron delicacies shipped in for Lynesse, he’d returned to eating a more bland diet of venison, fish, and Northern produce. _

_ Yet he’d found that he was a fool for thinking that these marginal savings and slight increases in income would save him when he owed tens of thousands on various credit cards not to mention his other loans. Despite no new extravagant purchases, he couldn’t even keep up with the ever-mounting interest, and his debt was greater now than it had been when he’d suggested selling a few of Lynesse’s things in the first place. He’d promised her he’d find another way, but if he’d known one, he never would have asked in the first place. Short of a sudden surge in demand for fish, lumber, or bear pelts, he was at a complete loss as to what else he could do. _

_ In general, he’d responded to these pressures by numbing his mind with drink and otherwise existing in a near-constant state of fury, snapping at his men in the regiment, losing patience with the servants in the keep, growling at Dacey, Aly, and his aunt over their continual nagging, and responding harshly at the slightest offense from the commoners of Bear Island. He’d even gone so far as throttling one photographer who’d accosted him in Deepwood Motte, breaking his camera in the process, though this seemed to make the tabloids more determined than ever to smear him. Lifting weights until his muscles burned and pounding the heavy bag he’d hung in the garage were the only things that kept him sane, he’d thought- that, and Lynesse’s gentle touch. _

_ It had crossed his mind briefly that perhaps he should be angry with Lynesse, but it wasn’t her fault. She was so young, and he was the one who’d brought her to this strange, cold land. He’d promised her, and her father too, that he would take care of her, that he would make her happy, that he would treat her always as his queen of love and beauty. All he’d asked for in return was her love, and she gave him that in abundance. It was he who had failed.  _

_ But now he had been called to a hearing at Winterfell where he must explain himself to the man who held the power to judge him.  _

_ Normally, he might have found a peace in the solitude as he made the long drive to Winterfell, but he had barely slept the past days, and when he did, nightmares haunted him. On this morning, he’d clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white as he’d struggled to keep his eyes on the road, the glare of the rising sun reflecting off the snowy landscape nearly blinding him. He’d soon drained his thermoses, and stopped at a fuel station for a refill on coffee, which he continued to chug. Before long, his stomach churned dangerously, and he’d had to pull over to empty his guts on a snow covered moor as he had approached the northern capital. He’d told himself it was the coffee and because he hadn’t had time to eat a proper breakfast as he took a swig of water and spat the rest of the bile from his mouth. He wasn’t afraid. This was nothing compared to Astapor or Pyke. He wouldn’t cower before Ned Stark.  _

_ When he at last arrived, he was met at the gate by Jory Cassel. “He’s waiting for you, my Lord. You’ve cut it close on time,” Jory had said with no preamble.  _

_ “The bay was choppy this morning, and the roads icy. I made the best time I could.” Jorah had glanced at his watch. He was twenty minutes early. _

_ “Do you want me to send for coffee or tea before you go in?” Jory had asked as he’d escorted him into the keep. They’d been friendly during Robert’s Revolution, and Jory had served during the Greyjoy Rebellion as well. _

_ “If he’s waiting for me, we’d best not keep him any longer. I wish to get this over with,” Jorah had replied gruffly.  _

_ “As you wish, my Lord,” Jory had said, showing him into the Great Hall.  _

_ The sight of the vaulted ceilings brought back memories ranging from mildly unpleasant to downright painful. Last time he’d been, in December, the hall had been festive, for he’d brought Lynesse for the Starnight Ball. What had started as an enjoyable evening for both of them had soured when Lynesse had gotten drunk and shared some sob story with Catelyn Stark. They’d quarreled afterward in their guest quarters with Lynesse complaining of his every inadequacy and of every inadequacy of Bear Island. And then there was the first time he’d danced with Sarra- but he quickly shook that memory from his mind. He had enough to handle in the present without remembering her smile when he’d asked her to dance and her near tears as he’d ignored her the next morning. He’d taken a deep breath, trying to clear his mind, and presented himself to Lord Eddard Stark. _

_ Jorah had found himself standing alone in the center of the hall, forced to look up at Lord Stark, who sat elevated on the ancient stone throne of the Kings of the North of old, flanked by the snarling direwolves carved into the hand rests. It brought to mind the many times he’d stood looking up at his father as a boy, fearing a blow from his fist at any moment. He could almost hear his father’s gruff voice demanding, “Look at me when you speak to me, boy!” So Jorah had given a slight bow then set his jaw, stood stiffly at parade rest, and looked Ned Stark square in the eye.  _

_ In his periphery, Jorah had noted a handful of other Lords in attendance. He had wondered if they were here specifically to witness his disgrace or if they had some other business in Winterfell. At least there was no press present. _

_ As he’d tried to control his breathing and slow his pounding heart, he’d reminded himself that this was not his father. He and Ned Stark were practically friends. They’d gotten on well during Robert’s Revolution and after the Greyjoy Rebellion. They were near the same age and had played together as boys on the handful of occasions when Jorah’s father had brought him along on business at Winterfell. Ned Stark had even stood as his best man all those years ago when he’d wed Sarra. He should have nothing to fear. And when he saw a dark haired boy peek into the hall alongside an auburn haired youth he knew to be Ned’s heir, he’d reminded himself that even the honorable Ned Stark was not perfect. His bastard was the walking proof of that.  _

_ “Lord Mormont,” Ned Stark’s voice echoed through the mostly empty Great Hall, “You stand accused of a crime which, if true, brings great dishonor on you and your House. I have now had the opportunity to read through the preliminary report from the Gold Cloaks, but I would hear from you in person. Tell me the truth of it. On the third of February or on any previous occasion, did you strike, strangle, or otherwise assault your Lady wife, whom you cloaked on your wedding day and swore to protect?”  _

_ And there was the crux of the problem. _

_ “Tell him the truth,” Dacey had said as he’d left Bear Island that morning.  _

_ “The Mormont name still holds some weight in Winterfell. You say you didn’t do it. Then tell the truth, he’ll believe you,” his father had growled when they spoke on the phone. _

_ “I know you didn’t do it, m’Lord. My mother says you are a good man and that Lord Stark will believe the truth,” Asher had volunteered the previous evening as he took his horse. _

_ “Hold your tongue, boy,” Jorah had snapped, “And mind your own affairs. I did not ask your opinion nor that of your mother.” _

_ But he  _ had _ cloaked Lynesse on their wedding day and brought her under his protection, and how could he tell the truth without publicly accusing her of lying? Was it not his duty as her Lord husband to protect her honor even before his own? Wouldn’t any man who loved a woman as he did want to shield her from embarrassment and shame? And in true answer to Lord Stark’s question, he  _ had _ struck his Lady wife on a previous occasion, even if that wife was not the one who’d made the accusations. _

_ “The truth of the matter, my Lord, is that I did not assault Lady Lynesse. This is all simply a misunderstanding.” _

_ “A misunderstanding? Lady Mormont’s description of things to the Gold Cloaks does not sound like a misunderstanding. Did she make it all up?” _

_ “It all happened very quickly, and she was very upset by our argument. She was not thinking clearly, and the Gold Cloak who interviewed her misunderstood her. She sent a statement in her own hand once she had time to think on it which should clear things up.” _

_ Stark had shuffled through his papers before turning to Maester Luwin. “Have I received such a statement?” _

_ “No, my Lord,” the old maester had said.  _

_ “She told me this very morning that she’d sent it,” Jorah had insisted.  _

_ “I’ll have one of my secretaries look for it, but for now, we will go on what we have. What were you arguing about?” _

_ “It- it was a personal matter between man and wife.”  _

_ “It was only personal until she called for the Gold Cloaks. Answer the question, Lord Mormont.”  _

_ Jorah was certainly not going to admit that he had driven himself into massive debt attempting to appease his wife. “We had a disagreement about the management of some of the household assets. It became somewhat heated. I admit, I spoke ungently to her, but that is all,” he had answered carefully.  _

_ Lord Stark had raised an eyebrow before continuing. “All? She accuses you of striking her, strangling her, and throwing her against the wall. She said she feared for her life. Physical evidence backs this up. The report notes that Lady Lynesse did have bruising on her forehead as well as on her arm. But you say you did none of this? Where did the bruises come from?” _

_ “The bruising- I did grab her arm, but not with ill intent. I did it to keep her from falling. It- she had nearly tripped. And the bruising on her forehead was already there from- well I’m not certain how she got it, but it was not from me.”  _

Why didn’t she let me read it _ , he thought. He didn’t want to contradict whatever it was that she’d written and despite his best efforts, he was stumbling over his well practiced words. _

_ “So she lied?” _

_ “No, my Lord,” he’d answered quickly. “She was simply upset. As I said, my understanding is that she may have not spoken clearly and her words were misconstrued by the detective.” _

_ “Misconstrued to say that you struck her and threw her causing the bruising?” Lord Stark had asked incredulously.  _

_ “Yes, that is my understanding-” _

_ “According to you, what were her actual words?”  _

_ “Well, it’s all in the statement that she sent, but I believe she told him we fought, but she did not mean, literally, physically-” _

_ “But she did call the Gold Cloaks.” _

_ “She asked my cousin to call in the heat of the moment-” _

_ “According to the report, you had a cut on your forehead at the conclusion of the argument, and there was shattered glass on the floor. Did Lady Lynesse assault  _ you _ ?” _

_ Someone in the hall had snorted in laughter. _

_ He’d felt heat rising in his cheeks, and he’d clenched his fists behind his back so hard that his nails dug into the palms of his hands. He was Lord of his own household. What right did Ned Stark think he had to question him like this, to humiliate him in front of his peers? And what right did they have to laugh?  _

_ “No, of course not,” he’d ground out. _

_ “So how do you explain your cut? Or the broken glass?” _

_ “It was an accident. A clumsy mistake on my part.” _

_ “Had you consumed alcohol prior to this disagreement?” _

_ “Perhaps I’d had one drink with lunch earlier,” he’d lied.  _ Would you call me a drunk as well?  _ he’d thought.  _

_ “You told the Gold Cloaks that you had during the argument.” _

I told Dacey that I had, no one else,  _ he’d thought. “If that is what I said on that day, it must be so. I cannot recall all of the details. I might have had a drink, but I am certain that I was not impaired.” _

_ The questioning had gone on like that for some time with Jorah denying wrongdoing but denying wrongdoing on Lynesse’s part as well, and as he’d stumbled over his words and his arguments, Stark had continually cut him off with new lines of questioning. He’d grown angrier and angrier about the whole situation even as Lord Stark’s frustration became evident. _

_ At last, Maester Luwin had leaned over and whispered something to his Lord.  _

_ Ned Stark had taken a moment to consider his words and then fixed Jorah with a hard look. “Tell me, Lord Mormont, why is it that though there is a lack of direct witnesses, numerous Bear Islanders questioned by the Gold Cloaks said that they thought you capable of doing exactly what Lady Lynesse accused you of doing, and all mentioned alcohol as a possible factor?” _

_ Jorah had felt as if he’d been punched in the gut as blood pounded in his ears and the room spun. He had tried to speak but found his throat so dry, he could barely swallow. What was Ned Stark talking about? Who had the Gold Cloaks spoken to? Surely no one from his family would have said such a thing.  _

_ “Who told you these lies? Dacey? My aunt? Some disgruntled servant? Or some fisherman or crofter who knows nothing of me and has never set foot in my home aside from the hall and then with hat in hand? Perhaps your Gold Cloaks spoke to the tabloid writers.” His voice had come out harsh and loud despite his best efforts to appear calm. He needed to get control over his emotions, and quickly. Mind your manners, Dacey had said. _

_ Lord Stark had stiffened. “You question the integrity of the investigators?” _

_ “I do. And I question this investigation in its entirety. The Gold Cloaks couldn’t even get my Lady wife’s words down correctly. And what right did they have to question my people without my permission?” He was treading on dangerous ground, and he knew it, but he’d found himself too angry to think clearly. _

_ “Lord Mormont, the Gold Cloaks were there on my orders, acting on my behalf. They were instructed to do a thorough investigation which included speaking to potential witnesses. The detective who interviewed your Lady wife is experienced with an impeccable reputation. What makes you think that he made such a monumental mistake in transcribing her statement? Were you in the room to hear what she said when she spoke to him?” _

_ “Well, no. But she told me later that he’d gotten it all wrong-” _

_ “Did you attempt to intimidate her to change her statement?” _

_ “No, I would never-” _

_ “The statements that Lady Lynesse made on the day of the alleged incident seem very clear, and she signed the statement at the end of the interview. The potential witnesses also made very clear, strong statements.” _

_ “There were no witnesses, so anyone else who claims knowledge of what happened between us-” _

_ “Lady Dacey saw the end of it.” _

_ “She saw nothing because there was nothing to see,” Jorah had nearly growled. “Anything else is the ill-informed gossip of my smallfolk.” _

_ “I asked you here to give you a chance to clear your name. Yet, you’ve been evasive in your answers. This leaves me little choice but to rely on the testimony of third parties.” _

_ “Yet, you won’t name these parties so that I might defend myself against them?” _

_ “You may defend yourself against their statements. Though I am confused as to why you won’t simply defend yourself now against your Lady wife’s statements and clear your own name. So I ask you again, did you do as Lady Lynesse said in her original statement to the Gold Cloaks, or did she lie in that statement? Do you have anything else to say for yourself?” _

_ “My Lady did not lie, she was misunderstood. And I committed no crime.” _

_ Ned Stark had sighed and suddenly looked very tired. “Very well, I think nothing more will be accomplished today. I’ll consider your testimony and check with my secretaries for an update from Lady Mormont. I will let you know if further action is needed. In the meantime, since I assume you will not be making your way back to Bear Island until tomorrow, you are welcome to one of my guest chambers and to join Lady Catelyn and me for dinner.” _

_ “I thank you for your hospitality, my Lord, but I had made other plans.” He had not, but he had no desire to spend the evening in polite conversation with Ned Stark or any of the other Lords present, acting as if he hadn’t just been interrogated like a common criminal.  _

_ \--- _

_ When he had exited the castle, it was already dark, and a cold wind whipped through the city streets. He had pulled up the collar of his overcoat and made his way to a nearby inn. It was not the type of inn to cater to a Lord, but it was affordable, so it would have to do. After putting his bag in his room and changing into casual clothes that would not mark his birth, he had headed across the street to a pub and settled at a corner table to sulk.  _

_ Despite his common attire, they must have spotted the ring which marked him as a nobleman, or perhaps they saw his sword which even an unstudied commoner would recognize was costly, for he was accosted by flirtation from the serving girl as well as several other common girls who’d seen him enter. Perhaps they’d recognized him from the tabloids, he’d thought bitterly, though then they’d be fools to want his attention. He’d ignored them as best he could but to little avail. At last, he’d growled, “I see you’ve noticed the gold on my right hand but not on my left. Mind yourself, or I’ll report you for dishonoring my Lady wife.” _

You hypocrite _ , he’d muttered to himself when at last he was left in peace. He had not forgotten that there was a time he’d have sought out their attention. _

_ He was more than a few drinks in, the bitter ale matching his bitter thoughts when a voice interrupted him. _

_ “So the hero of Pyke cannot defend himself against his Lady?” _

_ He looked up to see Medgar Cerwyn approaching along with Roose Bolton. _

_ “Come now, Lord Medgar, no need for that. We come as friends,” Bolton had said, spreading his hands as if to show himself unarmed. He sat across from Jorah and motioned for the serving girl to bring a round. Cerwyn sat beside him and helped himself to the basket of fries that Jorah had ordered.  _

_ Medgar Cerwyn was Jorah’s age though not yet a Lord in his own right as his father still lived. The two had never gotten along, and Jorah had once threatened to kill him over some small insult. Roose Bolton was more than a decade Jorah’s senior with a dark reputation. “A nasty piece of work,” his father had said of him once. “But a schemer. Steer clear of that one.” Neither man was a friend. _

_ “What do you want?” Jorah had said gruffly. _

_ “We are here to help, Lord Mormont,” Bolton had said in a condescending tone. “But what on earth did you think was going to happen?” _

_ “I don’t know what you mean.” _

_ “You’ve given your smallfolk an overinflated sense of their worth. And your women as well.” _

_ “I’ve done no such thing.” _

_ “You’ve given them far more schooling than they’ll ever need. You’ve walked back that nonsense about secondary school at least, but those extra years have made them think themselves too smart. And you are prone to giving the lightest of punishments under the law.” _

_ Jorah had begun to argue but Bolton had continued, “When was the last time you executed a man? Or took a hand or a tongue or even a finger? When was the last time you ordered more than a few lashes or set someone to hard labor for more than a few days? As for your kinswomen, where do I even begin? Yet, you seemed surprised to hear that some dared speak ill of you to Stark’s investigators, nevermind the papers.” _

_ “What is it to you?” Jorah had asked suspiciously. _

_ “It would set a terrible precedent if you were to actually be found guilty. A Lord should be able to do as he wishes on his own land and in his own keep. These new statutes are absurd, but you are making too many mistakes,” Bolton had continued serenely.  _

Of course,  _ Jorah had thought _ , he looks out for his own well-being, not mine. _ Bolton was rumored to rule the Dreadfort by methods that had been illegal for centuries. He was rumored to have fathered his bastard through rape and had the poor woman’s husband murdered under the pretense of some ancient custom long since outlawed in Westeros. He was rumored to still flay men. If Lord Stark knew...  _

_ “What exactly were these mistakes, my Lord?” Jorah had asked angrily. _

_ “You live on an island, Mormont!” Cerwyn had said as if talking to a child. _

_ “News of your alleged transgressions never should have made it to Ned,” Bolton expanded. “It should be easier for you than for anyone to keep such news contained. But though it did make it out, it still didn’t need to go this far. There were no other witnesses save your Lady wife. I don’t care what you did to her or what bruises she had, you need only deny it strongly, and this will all go away.” _

_ “I did deny it,” Jorah had replied defensively. _

_ “He must have been drunk that he hit her, but I think Lady Lynesse is truly Lord of Bear Island,” Cerwyn had said with a grin. “Does she keep your balls locked away except for bedtime? Of course, as you have no children, perhaps she keeps them even then.” _

_ Jorah had drained the rest of his glass before slamming it down on the table. “Fuck you, Cerwyn, and watch yourself. I’m not in the mood.” _

_ “Peace, peace,” Bolton had interjected. “He jests, but I think what Medgar means is that you did not deny it strongly enough. You acted guilty today, making excuses for your wife instead of naming her a liar. Don’t tempt Ned to make you the first Lord convicted or others may follow.” _

_ “Why are you even here, Cerwyn?” Jorah had persisted. _

_ “My father will die one day. And when he does, I have plans for Castle Cerwyn. Given my unfortunate close proximity to Winterfell, I don’t want Lord Stark to get in the habit of snooping about in the business of his loyal bannermen.” _

_ “Nor do the rest of us,” Bolton had said. “Tomorrow morning, go to Lord Stark and deny it outright. Say you did nothing wrong, and your Lady lied. Then when you go home, teach that cousin of yours a lesson. I understand that you Bear Islanders make allowances for your women, but to allow her to be a Gold Cloak is folly, especially if she lacks loyalty. Then deal with your smallfolk. You made a mistake in allowing them to see beyond their service to you. You made them think that they were more than your chattel. Make an example of one or two of them, and they’ll think twice of slandering you to the press or to the Winterfell Gold Cloaks again. You pay your taxes. You answer when Lord Stark calls his banners. You keep the King’s peace, and Lord Stark’s too. You do your duty. You should be left alone to otherwise rule your island how you please. As for your Lady, she could use some more discipline as well. She’s under your protection, not her father’s. Just stay away from her pretty little face next time. You wouldn’t want to ruin that.” _

_ “So I suppose you think murder and rape and all matters of vile crimes should go unpunished,” Jorah had growled, insulted by what he suggested he do to his wife, insulted by the insinuation that he did not know how to govern his own people. “Your people’s tongues do wag, Lord Bolton, though apparently not to Stark’s ears.”  _

_ Bolton had given him an icy smile. “Come now, Jorah, it does no good to speak of such things aloud while in Winterfell. Of course, laws must be followed, but these laws were made to be followed by common men and enforced by their Lords. Everything I did would have been seen as perfectly fitting by our ancestors who built this great kingdom. I did nothing but maintain the social order as it is meant to be. My people know better than to run to Lord Stark with every complaint because I rule with a strong hand. Of course, she was a commoner and your problem is a Hightower which complicates things, but it really never had to come to this. You are still her Lord.” _

_ Cerwyn had let out a burst of laughter. “She-bears they may be, but surely you are still stronger than the women on your island. Handle your cousin and your whore of an aunt. Then give that Southron bitch the beating she deserves,” he’d roared. _

_ Without thinking, months of frustration and anger and humiliation had boiled over, and Jorah had lunged across the table, his fist connecting with Cerwyn’s jaw. The table overturned, glasses shattered, women screamed, and Jorah pummeled Medgar Cerwyn as he pinned him to the ground. When Bolton tried to pull him off, he’d kicked him in the gut before turning back to Cerwyn.  _

_ The brawl had only ended when Ser Rodrik Cassel had burst in with half a dozen of Stark’s Gold Cloaks and they’d forcibly hauled Jorah off of Roose Bolten, for he’d turned on him by then. Shattered glass and cutlery were scattered across the floor. Numerous tables and chairs were overturned. Cerwyn had lain bleeding, drifting in and out of consciousness. Bolton, who was cursing under his breath, appeared to have a broken nose, and Jorah had felt a bruise appearing on his cheek. _

_ “Come, Lord Mormont,” Ser Rodrik had said bluntly. “Lord Stark will want to see you after this.” _

_ He was allowed to collect his coat and his sword, which he’d luckily hung on a hook just out of reach or he may have used it, before being escorted back to the castle. He’d stood seething, attempting to hide the shaking in his hands as he waited in the darkened Great Hall.  _

_ At last, Ned Stark had arrived, looking slightly disheveled and wearing a bathrobe. _

_ “Leave us,” he’d said to his guards and the Gold Cloaks. When they were alone, he’d turned to Jorah. “Lord Mormont, now you’d disrupt the peace in my own city? What have you to say for yourself?” _

_ Nothing. Jorah had nothing to say for himself at all, and he knew he ought to beg his Lord’s pardon. But he would not grovel. He’d had enough humiliation for one day. He had looked Lord Stark in the eye and declared, “I was defending my Lady’s honor, my Lord. That is all.” He’d added as an afterthought, “And that of my aunt.” _

_ “By brawling like a common ruffian in a bar?” _

_ “Would you have preferred I challenged him to single combat and killed him? Would that have been more honorable?” he’d spat in reply. _

_ Stark had given him a sad look before saying more calmly, “Jorah, you know that Medgar Cerwyn is not much of a fighter. What honor would there be in that? I say this as a friend- get yourself under control and the affairs of your household and lands as well. Your Lord father worries.” _

_ “Bear Island is no longer his concern,” Jorah had said coldly.  _

_ “It, and you, will always be his concern. Barroom brawls will not fix whatever has happened between you and your Lady Lynesse. Lady Catelyn told me she is unhappy. They spoke at the Starnight Ball in December, but all is not lost. Cat was unhappy when she first came to the North as well, but she’s come to appreciate it and our way of life. Lady Lynesse must likewise adjust to our way of living. You cannot attempt to recreate Oldtown here. Have you thought about trying for a baby yet? You’ve been married a number of years. I’d have thought you’d have one by now. Perhaps if she had a son, a future Northern Lord, it would help. Or a daughter, given the ways of Bear Island.” _

_ He’d stopped as if waiting for Jorah to reply, but Jorah had stayed silent, forcing his face into an unreadable mask.  _ You speak as if I haven’t already lost one wife from want of a child, as if I haven’t asked Lynesse a half dozen times if she might be ready to try for a babe,  _ he’d wanted to scream, but since he’d said nothing, Stark had continued his lecture. _

_ “You needn’t handle everything yourself. I rely on Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick for many things. I know you have a shortage of qualified advisors on Bear Island, but Lady Maege is a wise woman. Heed her counsel. And control your drinking. I need a sober-minded Lord to guard our west coast. Is that understood?” _

_ Jorah had given a curt nod, afraid to say a word lest he curse his liege Lord. _

_ “Very well. You’ll stay in one of the guest chambers tonight. I’ll send some men to get your things from the inn. And you’ll pay the barkeep for the damages you caused. The rest of this evening, I’ll forget, but know that the matter from this afternoon is not resolved. Now, you must excuse me for it is late, and I think we could both use some rest.”  _

_ Jorah had given a slight bow as Stark had strode from the room. He had not seen him since. _


	43. Chapter 25 - Jorah May 1303 AC

**Chapter 25 - Jorah May 1303 AC**

Jorah hurried to the courtyard of the keep at Darry as the gates were opened. The small town had become a bustling military base these past months, and even now at this early hour, the courtyard hummed with the sounds of soldiers cleaning weapons, breaking their fast, and preparing horses and vehicles for the day. Of course, he had broken his fast hours ago. It was not early for him. His work was never done, not that he minded. He did it gladly for Daenerys.

Jorah and Missandei had gone to great pains to convince Daenerys that she needn’t spend the entire winter in a tent outside of Harrenhal as the siege of the fortified city continued. They could oversee things from the relative comforts of the nearby town, the liberated seat of one of her advisors, just as well, and rule the rest of her territory more efficiently from there as well. Since then, it had become the base for thousands of men along with hundreds of camp followers. 

The city of Harrenhal, directly adjacent to where Jorah had spent three formative years at the Westeros Military Academy, was still a thorn in their sides, and the long siege had not yet wielded results. Still, the only plan they had come up with that Daenerys would even consider besides an outright assault was a suicide mission that involved sending a small band of men through the ancient combined sewer system. It was a half baked plan, “Operation Folly,” Ser Barristan had called it in jest, based on a myth that had sustained the Academy’s cadets even in Selmy’s time at the school. So the siege continued.

“Welcome back. What news have you, Ser Barristan?” Jorah called out in greeting to the small party that had just arrived. 

Selmy climbed down from the truck stiffly. The old knight’s clothes were wrinkled and mud-spattered, and he looked exhausted. Jorah had mixed feelings about the whole diplomatic mission north, primarily for selfish reasons, but now he hoped for good news. Daenerys was growing impatient, and she’d become furious when the defenders of Harrenhal had begun executing the prisoners they’d taken as well as civilian forced laborers, including children, and throwing them over the walls, a few each day. Jorah and Barristan both tried to save her from the sight of it. It was gruesome and heartbreaking even to a man who’d nearly grown numb to the sight of death. But she’d demanded to see what her enemies had done, and her anger had grown with each passing day. They needed good news.

“Lord Stark has agreed to support the Queen’s claim to the Iron Throne and has agreed to assist militarily against the Lannisters and Freys. He did not commit to the future of the North or his own allegiance.” Selmy’s tone was oddly cold, even more so than normal. Selmy resented Jorah’s new authority, and their conversations were rarely more than cold and formal. 

“Well, the Queen will be half pleased, I suppose, and glad to see you safely back,” said Jorah, trying to be friendly. The old knight looked sorely in need of rest. He was sure it had not been an easy journey.

He thought perhaps Selmy gave him an odd look before replying, though he may have imagined it. “Yes, at least I bring some good news. Lord Stark has proposed a plan to converge on the Twins to defeat the Freys once and for all and would like to start the campaign as soon as possible. He has a fair amount of artillery which will help.”

“It will have to wait until we take Harrenhal. She’s still rather set on it.”

“Because of Naharis,” Selmy said bluntly.

“Aye, perhaps, if they don’t execute him next,” Jorah admitted grudgingly. Naharis was still held prisoner in the city after being captured over four months prior though Jorah doubted that their enemy would be stupid enough to execute their most valuable hostage. “But now it is about righteousness as much as strategic importance. I’ve suggested we leave a small detachment to continue the siege while the rest of us move on, but she will hear none of it. It may yet require an assault to break them.” 

_ With heavy casualties _ , he thought glumly recalling his own charge through the breach at Pyke to end that siege. Ser Barristan, along with Robert Bartheon and Ned Stark, had come up with that battle plan. It may have brought about the final victory, but it was surely easier to give such orders from miles behind the front lines than to carry them out.

“So Operation Folly is still in play,” the older knight mused. “You say you saw a map when you were a cadet?”

“My mate saw a map. He swore the storm drains outside the barracks could take you anywhere in the city or all the way to the lake.” 

A mythical cadet from a class long before Jorah’s who’d been denied a weekend pass was said to have snuck into the sewers to escape the Academy, had himself a grand night, and gotten back to the barracks, stinking of shit, but in plenty of time for morning formation. When Jorah had been a cadet, his friend Florent, always the adventurous one, had searched out a map of the city’s sewage system and swore it could be done.

“It’s all just a myth though,” Jorah added.

“And you’ve thought of nothing better in my absence?”

“We could wait for Qarth to send their planes and bomb it to smithereens or we could use up all of our remaining shells on an artillery bombardment, but the Queen won’t have it,” responded Jorah. “It would kill too many civilians which she thinks would make her little better than them.”  _ And it might kill Naharis too _ . 

“Yes, our Queen is righteous,” said Selmy, fixing him with a grave look. “She will not deal with those who harm the innocent lightly.” 

As they made their way to Daenerys, Jorah updated Selmy on their situation, for he had been gone for several weeks. After going through troop movements and supply shortages and reports of unrest in other parts of the Riverlands, he added, “Xaro’s helicopters have arrived at Saltpans. We have a shortage of pilots who know how to fly them, and a shortage of mechanics too, but it’s a start. Darry’s been ferrying them about.” He decided to let Barristan hear the Queen’s plans to fly one of the choppers herself from her own mouth just to see his reaction.

They walked on in silence for a few moments as Jorah eyed the older knight warily. Even with the war on, Ser Barristan usually kept himself in an impeccable state, as if ready to step into a changing of the guard ceremony at the pre-war Red Keep at a moment’s notice, but now, his hair was mussed, his uniform was disheveled and dirty, and he was badly in need of a shave. Even his usually erect posture had given way to a slight slouch. 

“You look like you could use a shower and some hot food,” Jorah said. “When were you last in the field for so long, old man? It looks like it was a rough journey. I’d nearly given you up for dead.” He tried to keep his tone jovial, but he knew his words were bitter. Selmy was a fine commander but out of touch with the realities of life on the front lines.

“We had some close calls,” Barristan said wearily.

“Did you hear any news of my kin?” Jorah tried. 

“I met many of your former peers but no Mormonts. Inquiries about such a small and insignificant house might have raised questions, don’t you think?” 

Jorah swallowed down an angry retort about the insult to his house. The old man probably meant no harm by it, and his words should have brought relief. As much as he yearned for word of his family, it meant there had been no mention of him. “I only thought you might have seen my cousin, Dacey. Did you see a woman about my age, near as tall as me and thin with dark hair? She likely would have been the only woman involved in any military planning.” 

Ser Barristan turned on him suddenly. “I did not see such a woman. But my time in the North did make me consider your past. Have you changed, Ser Jorah? Do you regret what you did? If you could do it all over, would you run into exile again rather than face justice?”

Taken aback, Jorah felt a flush rising on his cheeks and growled, “I have many regrets in life, but I’ll not answer to you for my past. It’s the Queen’s opinion that matters, and she’d have me by her side.”

“As you say,” Selmy replied.

\---

Jorah had thought himself safe, at least for the short term, when they suddenly found allies, and they no longer needed the North quite as they had before. 

Yet, as much as they needed allies, as much as  _ he _ needed allies aside from the North, he’d reacted with near horror when he realized that Daenerys was seriously considering the offer of Hizdahr zo Loraq of Meereen. 

“But we need the oil, Jorah,” she’d said when he attempted to sway her against the idea. “Even if we get ships and planes, they need oil to run, you’ve said so yourself.”

“He asks too much of you, Khaleesi, and he will ask for more once he has it. We have no men to spare him, nor should we even if we did. We have a war  _ here _ , in Westeros. Do not send men to Meereen to fight this tyrant’s war. He is likely to turn on you as soon as he has what he wants, or demand more and more. I’ve told you, no good can come from getting involved in Slaver’s Bay.”

“He promises that he’ll abolish slavery. That doesn’t sound like a tyrant to me.”

“He won’t, and he is. Trust me, Daenerys. Please do not send our men there. Others in Essos have oil as well, and there’s oil to be had in Redwyne Straits if they can get the rigs up and running again. We will buy it, fairly.”

She’d let the matter rest though he feared she would want to revisit it soon if they found no other solution. That, or she’d agree to a political marriage. It was only then that he’d considered the Dothraki. 

He’d made a point to keep up on world events as they considered allies, and he’d been rather shocked to hear that Rakharo had become a khal. When he’d known him, the young man had an innocence about him, and while he was a fine fighter, he’d lacked the typical bloodthirst of those who rose to power among the Dothraki. Perhaps that had changed. Even though Rakharo was as close as he’d had to a friend during his time with the Dothraki, he wasn’t eager to bring his khalasar to Westeros, but he’d sent a message through intermediaries nonetheless. When he learned the condition of Rakharo’s khalasar, when he realized that Daenerys would, in fact, be saving them, he’d thought his idea might actually work. 

It _ was _ his idea, but he’d found himself in awe of the skill with which Daenerys conducted the negotiations. It was the perfect mix of promises and threats, and by the end of the calls, the usually chauvinistic Dothraki were practically tripping over themselves in their attempts to please their new khaleesi, a petite girl who’d not yet reached her twentieth name day. The twist with Qarth was an added stroke of genius on the part of his Queen. What she didn’t tell the rest of her council was that she’d instructed Rakharo to move on Qarth as if he meant to attack, and only then had Xaro, unaware of the khalasar’s desperate situation, agreed to her request for ships and planes. It was a dangerous game that she played, but with the way she spoke, only a fool would have questioned her resolve. 

\---

Yes, she truly was a Queen now, not the innocent girl he’d first come to know. She had an army. She had a court that grew by the day. She had powerful allies. She knew how to wield her authority, and she was slowly learning the intricacies of the day to day details of ruling and running a country. His awe of her, his admiration continued to grow. 

And she’d raised him to heights that he’d never imagined possible, that he’d perhaps never wanted, that he certainly didn’t deserve. He was the general of her armies and her right hand in nearly all things. When he spoke commands to Lords and commoners alike, it was with the weight of the Queen. While once, he’d shirked the administrative duties of his small island, now he spent hours pouring over tedious documents and sitting through meetings so that she might make the most informed decisions possible for she relied on his advice for all matters of governance. He knew she would need better advisors, experts in the various areas of running a nation when she took back the throne, but for now, he would do the best he could. He would not let her down as he’d let Bear Islanders down more than a decade ago. And save her handmaidens, he was privileged with her attention and allowed in her private presence more than any other. 

But he missed that girl, and that time before when she’d had a girl’s worries and not a Queen’s, when he’d simply been her lowly personal security officer and her friend. He missed when he was nearly her only companion and when she’d relied on his company for so much, when she’d smiled so easily in his presence. 

He missed the time before she saw the need to make herself cold and regal nearly all the time, when she could bestow some degree of affection upon him when others were around. 

He missed her touch most of all. She rarely touched him anymore, not like before, when she’d hugged him freely, when she’d sit on the couch beside him as they read or watched television in her apartments in the Red Keep, or like that night when she’d drunkenly asked him to kiss her, or even when they’d shared a horse and she’d leaned against his chest on their long journey from Blackhaven. Now he was lucky to get an occasional brush on his forearm and maybe a brief smile, though those brief touches still melted him, still set his heart on fire. 

He missed the time before she’d rejected him and declared him undesirable. 

Perhaps it was madness that overcame him. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps it was his fool’s heart that thought that with Daario gone, he might have a chance- that if he could just remind her of what they’d had before, she might see past his lack of comeliness, his age, his past, and recognize that his love was true. He knew deep down that he would never be worthy of her and that she would never love him as he did her, but he hoped that at the very least, she would forget this idea of a political marriage. He’d stand aside if she loved another, he swore, as long as that other man was worthy, but he’d be damned if he did nothing as she sold herself to the highest bidder. He wanted to remind her that while she was still a Queen, she was also still a young woman.

So he’d taken to stealing small touches, a brush of her elbow, a brief hand on her shoulder or hand, and he’d taken the liberty of calling her by her name more and more in private simply to remind her of a time before. She’d given him leave to do so once, though he sensed she had revoked it. “Your Grace!” she’d corrected him in frustration on a few occasions, nearly stomping her little foot, and he’d concede for the time. But he kept forgetting, whether from habit or from a desperate effort not to lose her. 

If he hadn’t been such a fool, he might have believed she meant it when she’d called him too familiar once, and undesirable. Instead, his heart earned him the humiliation of a slap with her whole council as witness.

She’d apologized afterward, in her own way. “About earlier, Jorah,” she’d said softly when they were alone. “I should not have lost my temper in that manner. And you know that I value you, but you truly must-”

“I understand, my Queen. It will not happen again,” he’d interrupted her, not wanting to discuss it, not wanting to relive the humiliation. He had, perhaps, deserved the slap, but he wished she’d not done it where others might see.

Perhaps it was the memory of that slap that stayed him from arguing even more vehemently when it came to the helicopters. As she inspected them with Jorah, she’d turned to him and declared, “I intend to learn to fly. I will be a warrior Queen like my ancestor Visenya, flying into battle.”

“Have you lost your mind?” he’d growled. Her eyes had flashed, and he’d quickly amended his statement. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but it would not be wise to put yourself in unnecessary danger.”  _ And surely you know what is written of Visenya is a myth! _

“Rhaeger flew helicopters in the army.”

“Rhaeger died in a crash.”

“I thought we’d decided that was the work of assassins. He wasn’t even the pilot that day.”

“Assassins tried to kill you once already, and you will always have enemies. Besides, Rhaeger had heirs to spare. If something happens to you-”

“I will die eventually without an heir.” She still had not had her moonsblood since losing Robb’s child and was convinced that she was barren. She’d dreamt of a witches curse, she’d told him, as she lay ill with fever.

“You don’t know that, Khaleesi, but even if you never have a child, you can determine a succession by then. If you die now-”

“What sort of Queen am I if I ask others to die for me but take no risk myself? Visenya was a warrior. Why can’t I be?”

“That was a different time, my Queen. Just because your ancestors were said to conqueror Westeros on dragons does not mean you must put yourself needlessly in harm’s way.”

“You would never say that if I was a man. You would never have said that to Viserys,” she’d said with a pout.

_ Because I didn’t give a damn if the boy died!  _ he’d wanted to yell. Instead, he took a deep breath before continuing, “It is my duty to protect you. I swore an oath to die for you if needed. How can I do that if you fly a chopper into battle?”

“You also swore to obey me,” she’d said, fire in her eyes now. “I will ask Lord Darry for lessons. I promise I shall be careful, but I-”

“Your Grace, you are being ridic-” Jorah had begun.

“Do. Not. Interrupt. Your Queen. Ser! My decision is final, and I’ve had enough of your arguing,” she’d said with a fury that might have caused a fire breathing dragon to cower.

Fearing another slap, he’d capitulated. “As my Queen, commands,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “I only beg that she be careful.”

With his agreeance, all anger seemed to leave her, and she’d gifted him with a radiant smile as she nearly leapt for joy. “Oh, Jorah, my bear, you worry too much. Of course, I shall be careful. Now help me up.” He’d offered her his hand as she daintily climbed into the cockpit to look around with the excitement of a child on Starnight morn.

No, things were not as they once had been, and he missed them, even as he marveled at her confidence and power and felt more for her with each passing day.

But with Selmy gone North, he’d needed to speak to her alone and soon, and only that past connection of a friendship of near equals might save him. These past months, ever since she’d first considered going North, he knew he had to tell her the truth, at least most of it.  _ I’ll tell her next time I’m alone with her _ , he’d sworn to himself.  _ I’ll explain myself, make her understand why I did what I did. She’ll understand.  _

He was certain that Ned Stark knew nothing of his spying. If Ned Stark was involved in Robert’s plot, surely Robb and Catelyn would not have ended up murdered at the Twins, so perhaps he could gloss over that part. Yet, every Northern Lord of a certain age knew of the crime that had truly caused him to flee Westeros, and she was likely to view that nearly as poorly as his attempt to win a pardon for it. 

He’d been careful to stay out of the videos and photos they’d shot for public relations purposes, not that he’d be easily recognized now with the wear and tear of the years, and while he stood at her side during her royal appearances, he was anonymous to the general public. She was intent on retaking the Red Keep before formally presenting him with his white cloak and naming him her Lord Commander in a ceremony that dated back centuries. He was also instrumental in crafting nearly every one of her decrees and policies, but her name was the only one that appeared on them. He had kept himself invisible. But now, all it would take was one slip of the tongue by Ser Barristan to make his position with the Queen known, and they would tell all they knew. He had spoken truly when he’d told Daenerys that he had no friends left in the North. 

_ Tell her _ , he’d argue to himself, frequently of late.  _ Tell her all and be done with it. Throw yourself at her mercy now before she finds out from another _ . He’d nearly told her half a dozen times in the past months on the now rare occasions when he was alone in her company. He was not a man to grovel, particularly if there might be witnesses to the humiliation, but if he was alone with a woman that he loved, he wasn’t too proud to beg. The Gods knew he had enough experience.

“Daenerys,” he’d begun several nights before when she’s invited him to dine with her in her private chambers. “My Queen,” he’d corrected himself quickly. But when she’d looked at him expectantly with a sweet smile just as a serving girl had come in to refill their cups, he couldn’t continue.

“Your Grace,” he’d said cautiously at the end of his morning report several weeks ago when they were truly alone, at least for a few minutes, but while he knew the girl would forgive him, he feared the Queen’s response, so he’d bowed and taken his leave. 

_ Tell her _ , his heart whispered.  _ Trust her _ .

_ Don’t be a fool. You’ll lose her forever and likely your life too, worthless as it is. Varys will be killed in this war and with him his knowledge. Robert is already dead, and the Lannisters are her sworn enemies, she wouldn’t believe a word they said if they even know you were the source, _ a darker voice argued back. 

She would never find out he’d spied on her. And as for the rest, he’d delayed her meeting with Ned Stark once, and he could do so again until he figured out how to tell her and gain her pardon. Or perhaps Stark would refuse to bend the knee and she would be forced to conquer the North. He didn’t relish the idea, but he selfishly knew that it might save him from discovery.

\---

Jorah had been discussing the distribution of much needed supplies to various factories with Daenerys in her private apartments when they’d received word of Selmy’s party approaching, and she’d instructed him to bring him to her as quickly as possible.

“I am delighted that you are back safely, Ser. Tell me what news you bring,” she said when they arrived. She called for a servant to bring tea and some food for Barristan before turning back to the two men.

Selmy said solemnly, “Your Grace, Lord Stark has agreed to an alliance. He suggests we move our forces on the Twins as soon as possible in order to eliminate one front before focusing on the Lannisters.”

“Very good, that is the plan that we’d already discussed,” said Daenerys. “But did he acknowledge my claim?”

“He agreed that the Iron Throne is rightfully yours, Your Grace, though he says he will not give up the North.” He hadn’t been as definitive in the courtyard.

Daenerys frowned. “Did you press the issue?” she asked.

“I did, but for the sake of diplomacy, I told him that for the time being, we would respect his claim, Your Grace.”

Jorah could sense Daenerys’ anger. “You weren’t supposed to do that,” she said, her voice rising. “He is usurping a kingdom, nearly half of my entire realm, just as his friend Robert usurped my throne after murdering my father and trying to murder me! He is mad if he thinks I will simply allow this.”

“He and the North have never had reason to love your father, and his Lords named him their King. It seems it will be difficult for him to go against their will. They do not see him as a usurper. His claim only takes back what was once taken from them. I urge patience, Your Grace. He will come to see that he must capitulate before too long. He is a good and honorable man, and his support of your claim to the Iron Throne is more important than anything right now.”

He didn’t so much as glance at Jorah as he continued, “Lord Stark also shared some other news which I think proves him a friend. Since before your seventeenth name day, you have had an informer by your side, someone who came to you under false pretenses, who has been selling your secrets to the Spider for money and promises.”

Jorah’s breath caught in his throat and he glanced quickly from Daenerys to Selmy and then back. Daenerys looked shaken and confused. “But who-.”

Panic was all he felt. Jorah reached for his handgun and drew it. His mind suggested a half baked plan to make Selmy the traitor and to kill him before he could speak another word. “You served the Spider and the Lannisters before, when it suited you, old man,” he growled. “Perhaps you still do, making such concessions to a man who falsely claims a crown and was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as the Usurpers best friend.” 

“I also learned the truth of why Ser Jorah fled Westeros in the first place, Your Grace,” Selmy continued calmly. “He has lied to you from the start.”

“No, you are mistaken,” Daenerys said, and she looked at Jorah, desperation in her eyes. “Tell him he is mistaken. There is no informer. Jorah, you are my friend, my protector, you saved me from Viserys and from the assassins. We traveled from Blackhaven together. Tell him he has it wrong!”

Jorah wanted to with all his heart but he knew it was no use. It was too late. “May the Others take you, Selmy!” he cried as he lowered his gun in surrender before turning to Daenerys. “My Queen, I only agreed to it before I came to know you, before I came to love-.”

“No, do not say that word!” she cut him off, her face filled with sudden fury as she backed away. “How could you? You, of all people? I trusted you above all others! What did you do? What were you promised? Titles? Riches? Tell me what you were promised!” She was screaming now and near tears.

Jorah could not meet her eyes, whispering, “Varys said- he said I might go home.”

“You liar,” she cried. “How can I believe a word you say? Are all knights so two-faced, so self-serving? Get out of my sight, before I have you burned to death. Get out!”

“But where shall I go, Your Grace?” he asked, barely able to stand, barely able to think.

“To hell, to the Lannisters,” cried Daenerys, openly sobbing now, and Jorah felt as if his heart might burst in his chest. “The Others can have you, or the Freys. Go- go-” and then she paused, flustered and sputtering before saying, “Operation Folly, you called it? Well, now we shall see how great a folly it is. You will end this siege or die in the attempt.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the show only group, we're going to be living in book-verse for a while now.


	44. Chapter 26 - Daenerys May 1303 AC

**Chapter 26 - Daenerys May 1303 AC**

Daenerys knew the truth now, at least enough of it. Ser Barristan had told her the gist of it before the battle had begun, and the truth was even worse than what she’d first imagined. Perhaps it would be better if he died in the sewers. 

_ He was my protector, my friend, my sweet, fierce bear. He saved my life, but he betrayed me and his crimes are unforgivable-  _ As she paced in her tent at the outskirts of Harrenhal, waiting for word on the battle, now in its second day, as Missandei and Irri attempted to distract her, her thoughts churned _ .  _ If he died, she’d be free of making a decision. But if he died...

At last, the guard at the flap of her tent announced Ser Barristan’s presence. She sighed before calling for him to be let in. She hadn’t fully trusted him since he’d showed up at Stony Sept, but now she supposed she had no choice. She needed a new Lord Commander and general of her armies. Unless she forgave Jorah. She could always still do that. If he lived... 

“Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan with a bow, “The battle is won. Harrenhal is yours. The castle is being made ready for you as we speak. There is still some disorder in certain neighborhoods, but your men are dealing with it now, and I believe it safe for you to enter the city.”

“And what of Daario and- and the group that went through the sewers.”

“Daario is safe and relatively unharmed. He is being examined by a maester now in the hospital wing of the keep. The infiltration group lost five men.” She could barely breathe as she waited for him to continue. “Ser Jorah survived. He has a few minor scratches, but nothing more. What would you like done with him now?”

She found herself holding back tears, whether of relief or anger, she did not know. But she did not want to see him, not yet. The very thought of seeing Jorah Mormont again made her stomach boil with agitation and anger and sickness. “I will go to see Daario, and we must put the city in order. Hold Ser Jorah until I am ready to see him.”

She made her triumphant entrance into Harrenhal in the early afternoon, escorted by a company of Unsullied. Those who’d been conscripted as laborers, skeletal beings in little more than rags, cheered her as she entered the city, but she could not help but notice the more hostile stares of others who looked more well off but still underfed as they peeked out from their homes. And she could not help but see the bodies as yet unburied and the smoldering buildings, the crumbled brick, and the shattered glass which sparkled on the sidewalks of the once grand city. The smell of death and fire and blood was all around her. There was much to be done to put the city in order.

She should have been relieved. Daario was safe, the city that had long been a thorn in her side was taken, Ser Jorah lived.  _ No, I will not think of him now, I have too much else to worry about _ , she scolded herself.

Daario looked slightly the worse for wear, but rose and bowed gallantly when she entered the hospital ward where he was being treated. “My beautiful Queen, you look even more radiant than I’d remembered. Thank you for sending your guard bear after me.”

“You never should have gone on that raid without my leave,” she scolded, but she embraced him and kissed his cheek. 

“Mormont smelled so horrid when he came into the room where I was being held that I almost declined to go with him, but I didn’t want to miss the rest of the fight. It was quite a scrap,” he said, as cocky as ever.

She was relieved to find him in such high spirits, his normal bravado not dampened by his long captivity, and she asked him to join her and the rest of her court in the audience room if he felt well enough, which he said he did, but only if he could first change and see a barber. 

The audience room was the largest she’d ever seen, larger even than the throne room in the Red Keep, and it had an ornate throne overlooking it. She sat perched high upon it as the high ranking officers and officials of Harrenhal were brought in at gun and sword point. Her court, Lords Darry and Rykker, a handful of minor Lords of the Riverlands, the chief officers of the Second Sons with Daario, freshly clad and with a freshly trimmed and greased mustache, at their forefront, Missandei and Irri, an envoy from Qarth and a few early arriving Dothraki looked on, as did a number of influential civilians from the city. Grey and Ser Barristan stood guard beside her, and Unsullied lined the hall. 

“How many prisoners did these men execute and throw over the walls, Ser Barristan?” she asked, already knowing the answer. He stood just behind her on her right side, in Jorah’s spot.  _ No, don’t think of him _ , she scolded herself.

“One hundred and sixty-three, Your Grace,” he answered gravely.

“The one hundred and sixty-three most senior ranking men are to be executed. Their heads are to be mounted in the plaza as a warning to the others.” The audience room erupted with cries from some of the civilians, whom she assumed to be their kin.

Barristan shifted behind her and he cleared his throat. She looked at him expectantly. 

“Don’t you think that a bit harsh, Your Grace?” he whispered over the din, as Unsullied attempted to control the crowd. “Perhaps it is better to show mercy.”

“I prefer justice to mercy at the moment,” she replied. Then more loudly, so that all could hear, she said, “Anyone else from the rank of sergeant or higher and all civilian members in positions of leadership in the city are to be held for questioning. Any corporal or private who wishes to bend the knee and take an oath of allegiance to me may do so and may join my army, and all other civilians will not be harmed as long as they keep the peace. Lord Rykker, you will see to it that bread lines are set up throughout the city so that the people are fed. To the good people of Harrenhal, I mean to rebuild your city and allow you to live in peace, though there is still a war to be won. If you support my efforts, things will go well for you.” 

Several more hours passed, putting the affairs of the conquered city in order. Ruling was exhausting, and she found her bottom going numb from the hard throne, even as she sat straight and queenly upon it, but at least for those hours, she was able to keep Jorah Mormont from her mind, mostly. But at last, she knew she could delay it no longer.

“Bring in Ser Jorah,” she instructed. She saw Missandei give her a sympathetic look but she steeled her own gaze.  _ I must be strong _ , she told herself. _ I must have fire in my eyes when I face him, not tears _ .  _ Fire and blood, fire and blood, fire and blood _ , she repeated in her mind over and over as she waited.

He was in clean clothes when he entered and his glistening hair was evidence of a recent shower, but he had a gash over his eye and his hands were raw with cuts and scratches. He walked between his two guards with a slight limp. 

Though she kept her face a mask, she wanted to weep as she looked upon his dear and familiar face- a face that had brought her comfort and strength these past years. She longed to look into his eyes, which had always been kind from the day she’d met him when she’d been a scared child, which twinkled on the rare occasions when he smiled, only for her. He was not smiling now, and he would not meet her gaze for he had betrayed her. 

He stared at the floor as he approached.  _ He is ashamed _ , she determined as she examined him.

The guards led him to the bottom step and then released him, stepping back. Only then did he look up, though she found suddenly that it was  _ she _ who could not meet his gaze as she glared just over his head.  _ Once you were my strength and my comfort,  _ she thought _ .  _ The sight of him made her heart thump painfully in her chest, and she wanted to hug him and slap him all at once but she forced her face to remain cold.

Ser Jorah cleared his throat. “Your Grace, if we could speak alone-” he began.

“Be quiet,” she said, though she’d missed his gruff voice. “I will tell you when you have permission to speak. And we will speak here, in front of my court, for surely you have nothing to hide.”

She stood and took a step towards him before continuing. “When I sent you into the sewers, part of me hoped that I would never see you again, that you’d drown in the filth of Harrenhal. It seemed a deserved end for a liar and betrayer. I thought I’d let the Gods deal with you and your crimes, for they are said to be just, but you’ve returned instead, my brave knight. My brother would have you burned to death, and my father as well. You may have helped me win the city-”

“We won you the city,” Ser Jorah interrupted her, his jaw tight. “We saved you thousands of lives.”

“I told you to be quiet,” she said sternly, though he spoke the truth.

Operation Folly, they’d called it. She’d wanted to send Jorah in alone, but in the end, her council- her first council that did not include Jorah- had convinced her that, while the chance of success was low to begin with, there would be no chance at all if he went in alone. Instead, he’d gone with twenty volunteers.

The bulk of her forces had prepared their own attack with a small barrage of mortar fire and artillery. While the defenders were distracted by this diversion, Ser Jorah and the volunteers had taken inflatable rafts across Gods Eye lake under the cover of darkness, tore off the grate on the entrance to one of the sewer runoffs, and slipped beneath the city. They’d tread through thigh-high wastewater and shit with flashlights and weapons held high. One man had slipped when they reached an area of rushing deeper water and had presumably drowned, and another had nearly been washed away as well, but Ser Jorah lunged after him and grabbed his arm. They proceeded more carefully from there, and after a few wrong turns and with the help of welding equipment, they’d made their way up and into the prison. There, they’d freed the remaining captured Second Sons and Tully troops and several hundred forced laborers, armed them as best they could with extra weapons that they’d carried in, and started an attack from within. With the chaos behind their own lines, the defense of the city crumbled, and the bulk of the army was able to attack from the outside, easily overrunning several breaches created by the artillery fire. It took another day of hard street to street and house to house fighting to clear out the remaining pockets of resistance, but the infiltration group had truly prevented more massive casualties, both of her own men as well as among the civilian population. 

“You  _ helped _ win the city,” she insisted. “And you have served me well in the past. You saved me from the assassins in Blackhaven and you protected me from my brother when no one else would. Yet, you lied to me and betrayed my trust. So I’d have the truth now. Why did you flee Westeros and how were you able to return? Explain it to me, so that I might understand.”  _ Explain why you betrayed me. Make me understand, my sweet bear, so that I might forgive you _ .

“I have told you the truth. I told you that-” he began gruffly.

“Half-truths are as good as lies. I want none of your careful omissions. Let us start at the beginning. You told me and everyone else that you fled to avoid punishment for assaulting your poor wife, but that is not the truth, is it?”

“I never hit Lynesse, I-” he began stubbornly.

“Do not lie to me, Ser! I am not here to debate a known fact, only to find out the unknown. Did you flee Westeros because you hit your wife or for another reason?” He was too insolent.  _ Why can he not humble himself? He should be begging for forgiveness right now, not continuing to lie. I thought him humble and honest once... _

Now he could not look at her. “For another reason.” His voice sounded angry, as if she was in the wrong, and not he.

“What reason?” 

“I became involved in a trafficking ring.”

“What did you traffick?”

“I trafficked nothing. I simply-”

“What were the things trafficked?”

“A variety of things.” She said nothing, waiting for him to continue. His thick neck reddened, whether from shame or anger, she was not sure. “Men, once,” he admitted in a gruff voice. “But that was only because-”

“I understand that you sold girls, too, sent them to Essos to live out their lives as slaves in brothels.” 

“I sold no girls,” he insisted, and his eyes met hers again, but only for a moment. “I did not know about them, I only-”

“Do you expect me to believe that? Surely you at least suspected. You were not some young, naive boy,” she said coldly. He looked at his feet again and did not respond. “Why would you do such things?”  _ I once thought you the kindest man I have ever met. How could you? _

“I had no money, and an expensive wife,” he said, still looking at the ground. “I needed a way to repay my debt. When I found out about the girls, I-”

“So you blame this on your wife? Did she force you to do it?” she asked.

“No,” he said so softly she could barely hear him. “But I wanted to make her happy.”

“You thought it acceptable to  _ sell  _ men and girls in order to buy your wife’s happiness? Perhaps you could have started by simply treating her more gently.” Perhaps he was a brute, as everyone had warned her.  _ What sort of man sells human beings? _

Jorah’s hands, which had started out folded respectfully behind his back, were now clenched at his side. He said nothing though his jaw twitched. 

“So that is why Ned Stark wanted your head, and this is common knowledge in your homeland. I am called the Breaker of Chains, while my chief advisor is a known slaver in the North. You make a fool of me, Ser. You speak of Lord Stark as if he is in the wrong, but I will execute slavers and traffickers as Queen as well. I can think of nothing more despicable than selling another human being,” she spat. “ And you lied to me, lessening your crimes from the very start for your own benefit. You made yourself out to be trustworthy and my true friend. Trust no one but Jorah Mormont, you said. The world is full of spies and backstabbers, you said, all while you were the Spider’s creature.”

“I am no man’s  _ creature _ ,” he protested angrily. “I sent him some information, yes, but that was all-”

“All? What sort of information was _all _that you shared, Ser?”

“I told him of your brother’s activities and movements.” He hesitated briefly. “And some of yours as well.”

“You spied on me and sold me to my enemies!” She was halfway down the steps now, mere feet from him.

“I was being blackmailed, Your Grace. I tried to stop, but I would have been arrested and executed if I’d not done-”

“You would have been executed rightfully for the crime of slaving.” He was too proud and making too many excuses. He was making this too difficult.  _ Admit your wrongs, Jorah, so that I might forgive you! _

Ser Jorah said nothing.

“You told them of Viserys’ travel plans on the day he died?” 

“Yes, but I did not know what they intended. Varys said no harm would come of it,” he insisted.

“When did this informing stop?”

“I sent one message from Blackhaven, but-”

“From Blackhaven?”  _ But that was after Viserys died, surely he knew what they intended by then.  _

“I was trying to protect you, to keep you away from harm. I knew they would not stop, I knew what snakes they were-”

“ _ Snakes!  _ And what does that make you, Ser?” Suddenly, a horrible, unspeakable thought occurred to her. “You told them I was carrying Robb’s child...” 

“Khaleesi-”

“Don’t call me that!”  _ How dare he call me that, now, after all he’s done.  _ “Did you tell them that I married Robb and was carrying his child? Did you tell them I would be in Blackhaven?”

“Do not think to deny it,” Ser Barristan interjected sharply. “You were the source. Lord Stark found out there was even talk that you might do the deed yourself for a pardon and Lordship.”

Ser Jorah’s face darkened. “That is a lie! I may have shared information, but I would never- Daenerys, I  _ saved _ you from the assassins-”

“Because you knew they were coming.” Cold fury laced her voice.  _ But he shielded me with his own back, he was wounded.  _ She remembered the look in his eye as she’d tended to his hip. 

“I- I but suspected. I received a message just before that made me suspicious. Varys had told me- I thought they only wanted you watched, not harmed, I swear.” He fell to his knees. “I did not know- I did not think- I tried to protect you. Many knew of your travel plans. More than a few knew of Robb and the child. If I had not told, someone else would have, someone who did not have your best interest at heart. You  _ know _ that, Your Grace!” 

She felt fury rising within her. “I  _ know _ that the assassins tried to kill me and my child because of you. I  _ know  _ they killed my husband because of you. I  _ know _ that I lost my child on our journey to Stony Sept because of you. I  _ know _ that you betrayed me- from the first.” Her voice came out dangerously calm and cold even as she fought to hold back tears. His eyes very briefly met hers, and for the first time, she thought she saw fear in them.

“No- no-” He shook his head as if to deny it still, and then bowed his head, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Forgive me. I never meant-” He looked up at her then, his eyes and voice pleading. “Please, Khaleesi, you must forgive me.”

“ _ Must?”  _ It was too late. 

_ He should have started by begging for mercy. _ She had intended to pardon him, but now-  _ How can I forgive him for the souls he sold into bondage? How can I forgive him when he attempted to sell my own life? How can I forgive the death of my husband, the death of my child?  _ She’d burned the assassins to death in Blackhaven. She’d executed dozens of Freys for killing Robb. Shouldn’t the man whose information sent them receive the same? _ But this is Jorah, my dearest friend, my sweet, fierce bear, my right hand who has saved my life countless times and never failed me. But…  _

“I cannot forgive you. What you have done is unforgivable.”

“You forgave Selmy. He served your enemies. He-”

_ And still he argues! _ “He thought I was dead!  _ You _ sold my secrets to the men who killed my father and my brothers and my husband and who attempted to kill me even as you played at being my friend. My child might have lived if not for you.” She could not look at him.

“I have protected you, fought for you, killed for you.”

_ Wanted me,  _ she thought _ , betrayed me _ . 

“I went down into the sewers like a rat. I saved Naharis. For you.” 

_ You should have died in those sewers, it might have been a kinder end for both of us.  _ But she said nothing. What was there to say? 

“Daenerys, I have loved you,” he said in a broken voice.

“ _ Love! _ ” she spat.  _ As if that makes it better and not infinitely worse _ . “How can you say that to me? You did not die in battle. The Gods spared you so they must have some use for you, but I have none. Any other man, I would have executed. But you, I do not want you near me, dead or alive. You are banished, Ser. Go back to your master’s in King’s Landing. Collect your pardon, if you can. Or go back to Essos for all I care. Perhaps Khal Moro needs a knight.” 

“No!” He stood and took a step towards her, reaching for her before the guards could restrain him. “Daenerys, please, hear me-” he begged, but she slapped his hand away.

“Do not  _ ever _ presume to touch me again or speak my name. You have until dusk to collect your things and leave. If you are found here past break of day, if you dare show your face in my lands again, I’ll have your head struck from your body. Believe me. I will.”

He did not move, continuing to look at her as if in denial of her words. 

“Go. Now! Before I change my mind.” she hissed and turned her back on him. She could not see him anymore.  _ Do not weep, you are blood of the dragon. Do not weep. Do not look back. If I weep, I will forgive him, and if I look back, I am lost _ . “Remove this liar from my sight,” she commanded, and she was grateful that her voice did not break. 

She heard the guards grab Ser Jorah, even as he resisted briefly before they dragged him out. Only then did she risk one glance back, and she saw him, with a guard tightly gripping each arm, stumbling slowly from the room, as if drunk, his head down and shoulders slumped. She wanted to call after him, to tell him that she changed her mind, that she forgave him, even as she wanted to kill him. Instead, she looked away until she heard the doors close.

Daario, handsome Daario, was beside her at once. “You are a kind and merciful Queen,” he purred as he twirled his mustache, “But he is a dangerous man. He knows all of your secrets, your strengths, your weaknesses. He may sell them again. Give me the word or even a nod, and I will bring you back his ugly head.”

“Leave him alone,” she snapped. “Let him go home, if he can.” He could not go home, she knew that, but neither could she. “We are done here,” she told her court. And then she’d fled to her chambers.

Irri and Missandei helped her change, and she found that she was shaking. They pretended to believe her when she said it was due to the cold even as Missi looked mournful and Irri sniffled. They joined her for dinner as well, a feast made in celebration of her victory, though she found she had no appetite and when Irri burst into tears, she nearly cried herself. 

“Have you had word of your mother, Irri?” she asked. Irri’s mother had lived in King’s Landing when the war began, and she’d heard nothing of her in the years since, but Daenerys knew that was not the cause of her tears. 

“No, it’s because of-” Irri had begun with a sob.

“If you’re upset, you may go and have the evening to yourself. Missi will help me with anything that I need.” She tried to smile reassuringly, to show her that she wasn’t angry with her as Irri had given something that might have resembled a curtsey and fled the room in tears.

Later, as she’d helped her prepare for bed, Missandei had said softly, “You can still recall him. He has not yet left, Your Grace.”

_ Daario would have me kill him, Missandei would have me keep him. _ “If I recall him, it will be to kill him,” she hissed, and Missandei said no more. 

That night, she barely slept and she dreamt of her unborn son and a witch and a bear consumed by flames. The next morning, she told Missandei to fetch Ser Barristan and to leave them to speak alone.

When the old knight came, she asked hesitantly, “Is he…?”

“He is gone, Your Grace.”

_ So it is done. He’s gone. I shall never see him again. My mother, my father, my brothers, Robb, and now Ser Jorah…  _ She didn’t know whether to cry or sigh with relief.

“I should have done this months ago,” she said to Ser Barristan, “But I would have you as my Lord Commander if you’ll take the title. I have no cloak to give you now, and we shall have a proper ceremony in the Red Keep when we are home, but I’ll hear your vow if you wish to give it.” He’d gone to his knee at once.

After he’d given her an update on the situation in the city and prepared to leave, she’d said, “One last thing, Ser. Tell Grey that the heads should be taken down from the plaza. If they have families who wish to claim them, they may do so.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said with a bow.

Only then, when she was at last alone, did she weep bitterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( Sorry. As I said last chapter, this portion is heavily book inspired... and yes, I just straight up copied large portions of the dialogue, but I thought GRRM did such a nice job with the whole back and forth that I couldn't even try to do better. 
> 
> I also thought it was interesting how often Dany cuts off Jorah mid-sentence in the book... and I like to believe that he would have said other important, and perhaps redeemings things if she hadn't.


	45. Slaver - March 1292 AC

**Slaver - March 1292 AC**

_ Jorah had motioned for the cook to refill his glass with ale and took a long swallow once she had done so. He’d only just rehired her a few months prior, having been forced to let the chef from Oldtown go, and the woman who’d cooked for House Mormont for as long as he could remember before he’d demoted her to a part-time assistant shortly after the arrival of Lynesse had an air of resentment about her that annoyed him. She should be grateful to have her job back, he’d thought angrily as he took another swallow.  _

_ Cutlery clattered at the table around him though no one but little Lyanna spoke. Lynesse had just stormed out after some perceived slight by Aly, and tension had filled the air. He supposed she’d wanted him to follow after her, but he was hungry and tired and not in the mood for an argument. At least he could have some silence here. Until Dacey spoke. _

_ “I assume you haven’t heard back from Lord Stark yet.” _

_ Jorah had scowled in reply. _

_ “Nor has he found a gold mine, or money that grows on trees,” Aunt Maege had muttered.  _

_ Jorah had pretended not to hear her. _

_ “So that explains your mood, but was that sentence really necessary, Jorah? Or just? ” Dacey had asked. _

_ “I’ve acted perfectly within the law,” Jorah had growled, immediately on the defensive. _

_ “But to take a man’s hand over a deer?” _

_ “They can go to the Wall if they’d prefer. Besides, Father did it.”  _

_ He’d remembered the first time clearly. He’d been young- younger than eight because his mother was still alive. She had been upset and not wanted him to see, but his father had insisted. “Stand steady, boy. This will be your duty one day. You needn’t enjoy it, but if you cry, I’ll give you a thrashing when this is done,” his father had said. All these years later, he hadn’t forgotten the man screaming or the blood gushing from the stub of his arm or the bits of flesh and bone that clung to Longclaw until his father had wiped it clean. _

_ “That was another time, Jorah,” Maege had argued, drawing him back to the present. _

_ “Tell that to Lord Stark,” he’d shot back. “Or Umber or Karstark or Bolton.” He’d noted that none had an argument for that. Stark had never hesitated to bring down the full weight of the law on a man. Stark had never shied from taking a hand or a head. Stark had beheaded a deserter, once, a conscript during Robert’s Revolution, for the crime of wanting to witness the birth of his daughter. Duty, he called it, and honor, just like Father. _

_ “But why did you send them to that horrid camp where their families can’t even visit them? If they take the Black, they’ll never see them again. Why not put them in the jail?” Aly had asked. _

_ The King and Lord Hand had recently decided to create military prison camps to hold insurgents from the continued minor uprisings on the Iron Islands and among the mountain clans as well as men caught raiding from the Frozen Shores of the Free States. One such camp, overseen by the Wolfswood Regiment, had been built on a remote section of Bear Island. It brought in a little income for the island, so Jorah had not objected to its construction. He’d also recently decided to use it to house the handful of prisoners who might otherwise have been held in the local jail. It wasn’t technically allowed- the camp was meant exclusively for military detainees- but since he was Lord of the island as well as an officer, nobody had questioned him.  _

_ “He’s letting them freeze and starve to save himself a few coppers,” Maege had said. _

_ “The Crown has gold to spare,” he’d muttered though she was not wrong about his reasoning nor that the conditions at the camp were rather abysmal. That wasn’t his problem though. He hadn’t ordered such flimsy construction or such thin blankets not meant for Northern climates. He hadn’t decided the rations should be nothing but thin soup with coarse bread most days.  _

_ “One is only a boy,” Dacey had argued. _

_ “He’s old enough to join the army. I served with younger lads in Astapor.”  _ I saw younger lads die in Astapor,  _ he’d nearly said. But why did he bring up that damned place? He didn’t want to think of Astapor. _

_ “Two of them have young children. You’d have them choose between leaving their families forever or losing a hand for such a small offense, boy?” Maege had chimed in through tight lips.  _

_ “You cannot address me that way!” he’d exploded in frustration. “The smallfolk think me weak, and it does not help matters when you belittle me in front of the servants.”  _ Perhaps it was the cook who spoke to the papers _ , he’d thought bitterly. _

_ “No one thinks you weak,” Aly had retorted. _

_ “Then whose tongue wagged to Lord Stark? Who dared slander me to the press? If I find out, I’ll have their lying tongues cut out, and then they’ll know I’m not to be crossed.” _

_ Dacey had snorted, “Yet, Lynesse still has hers. I suppose you let her keep it so that she can lick your-” _

_ “Gods dammit, Dacey, get out!” he’d roared slamming his fist on the table and overturning his glass in the process. “And the rest of you, I’d like to eat in peace, so either leave or be silent!” _

_ Dacey had risen and stormed from the room with Aly close behind. Jorelle had begun to cry which set Lyanna off as well, and Maege had stood and herded the remaining girls from the room, leaving only the cook with her resentful eyes. _

_ “Clean up this mess, bring me another ale, and then leave me, woman!” he’d bellowed at her, and she’d scurried to do as he bid, leaving him to stew alone, though he’d felt badly once he was alone. He hadn’t meant to make the younger girls cry. And he’d remembered suddenly how kind the cook had been to him after his mother had died, how she’d sneak him cookies with a wink or allow him hot chocolate and a hug, until his father had found out and put an end to it. He’d apologize later, he concluded. For now, he had enough on his plate. _

_ Three men had been caught poaching in the forest that morning, and Jorah had sat in judgment that very evening once he’d finished with his military duties for the day. In the past, he’d have allowed for extenuating circumstances in order to prescribe a less severe penalty as allowed by the law. Crime rates were low on Bear Island, and though he’d beheaded a man once in a case of clear cut murder, it was rare that he’d sentence anyone to more than a few lashes, a short stay in the jail, or perhaps a small fine or a day’s labor. He had never been a harsh Lord.  _

_ But now, after all that had transpired with the investigation and with his humiliation both in the press and before Lord Stark, he’d felt he needed to make an example of them. Under the law, he had the right to take the hand of a thief for that’s what a poacher was, and having never taken a hand and not particularly wanting to, he’d decided to give them the option of taking the Black instead. One man had asked for time to consider the options, and he’d relented on that point, sending them to the military detainee camp for the short term. _

_ One woman who had both a husband and a son on trial had cried and fallen to her knees to beg Jorah to have mercy. The wife of the other man had wailed as she’d held her infant. Jorah had nearly relented, but as much as he would never admit it, Roose Bolton was right. He’d been too kind, too weak, and his people had taken advantage of it, and to change his mind now would make him look even weaker, so he’d brushed by the crying women and returned to his keep. He was far from the only Lord to enact such a punishment. If it was too harsh, Stark, Robert, and the King should have changed the penal code. _

_ He’d tried much the same with Lynesse the week before when his brief reprieve had ended just days after returning from his initial hearing at Winterfell. The credit card he’d given her to use as she pleased had been declined on an attempted purchase because he had not paid the bill. After she’d made some condescending remark about his inability to take care of her and its implications about his manhood, he’d raised his voice to her, saying, “Must I remind you that I am your Lord husband? You have no right to speak to-” but she’d slapped him before he could finish his sentence. _

_ He’d responded with a curse. _

_ She’d raised her hand a second time, but when he’d grabbed her wrist, she’d given him a look of scorn and spat, “And here I thought you loved me, yet you speak to me like a whore. You’d best hope my wrist doesn’t bruise, or you’ll be in trouble, you big brute.” Then she’d pulled away and stormed from the room. _

_ She’d not spoken to him or listened to his apologies or allowed him to touch her in bed for several days until he’d bought her a bouquet of flowers and begged her forgiveness. She’d only softened when he’d also agreed to take her on a holiday to visit her sister in Highgarden as soon as he could get some leave from the regiment… and as soon as he could save up a little bit of money for the flight. _

_ As for the money, he was at a loss about what to do and that hung over his head just as darkly as the lack of a decision from Ned Stark. He’d promised Lynesse he would find another way, but he had creditors breathing down his neck and hardly any money to simply cover day to day necessities, nevermind holidays. He had finally swallowed his pride and asked Lynesse if she had any family connections for business ventures, and she’d said she would ask her brother, Gunthor. _

_ The Hightowers were old money, but with ten children, the youngest sons had to do some sort of work for a living, and Gunthor had found great success as a businessman already, though he was only a few years out of university.  _

_ —- _

_ When he’d finally left the dining room that evening and returned to his chambers, entering rather timidly as he didn’t know where he stood with Lynesse, she’d looked up from the bed where she lounged reading a magazine and motioned for him to join her. _

_ He’d sprawled out beside her, feeling exhaustion bearing down on him but relief too because she was not angry. She’d pulled off his shirt and begun to massage him, and he’d let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Her soft little hands did not have the strength to do much good for the knots of tension in his muscular shoulders and thick neck, but he was grateful for the gesture and thought her touch might heal what ailed him, at least for a while. _

_ “You have so many worries, my bear. You’ll be glad to know I heard back from my brother.” _

_ “Have you?” He’d cracked open an eye. _

_ She had told him that her brother knew a trader from Tyrosh who might have some business for him, but that he was a hard man to find. Her brother had suggested he ask around the dockside taverns and pubs in Deepwood Motte. Collio was the man’s name, she’d said.  _

_ “Why should a businessman be hard to find? What sort of business is it?” Jorah had asked with a frown. _

_ “I don’t know, he didn’t tell me. But Gunthor says he will certainly have business for you given your connections and position.” _

_ “Is it honorable work?” The whole thing sounded suspicious. _

_ “My silly bear, you and your honor! What is the point of having power if you never profit from it? Every Lord in Westeros profits in his own way, save you. Some have gold mines or oil on their land, some have great cities and some have rich farmland. What does this island offer but ice and mud and misery? So if this trader offers you some business based on your connections, then you should take advantage of it. Is there dishonor in that?” _

_ She had a point, he’d decided, and besides, what choice did he have? He could think of no other way to increase his income and even begin to pay his debts. Sensing with dread that it might involve something mildly unethical or even illegal, he’d begun to discreetly ask around at the shadier dockside pubs in Deepwood Motte. Eventually, he’d been introduced to Collio, as unsavory a character as Jorah had ever met. _

_ “May I buy you a drink, my Lord?” the man had asked smoothly when Jorah sat across from him. Jorah was dressed plainly as a commoner, for the pub was not the type of place noblemen would frequent, and he’d thought it wise to be noticed by as few men as possible. The man from Tyrosh was dressed like a peacock with a flamboyant mustache and gold teeth. _

_ Jorah had nodded, and Collio called for a whiskey. “I understand you have some business for me.” Jorah had said once his drink came. _

_ “I might. Are you ever on port duties with your regiment, my Lord?” _

_ “Sometimes. Not if I can help it.” _

_ The Wolfswood Regiment was in charge of port inspections for Deepwood Motte, and as such, the officers tasked to the duty oversaw the boring, administrative work of checking the contents of the many cargo ships that came and went through the busy harbor. Jorah had previously avoided that duty when at all possible, for while much about the unit bored him, the regiment in general seeming to be nothing more than glorified Gold Cloaks compared to his cavalry unit in the Reach, few duties were more tedious to Jorah than this.  _

_ “Perhaps you should change your ways,” Collio had said. “If you can get the duty for yourself, and as often as possible, my Lord, all you need to do is skip a few of the containers coming and going on certain ships. I will communicate the ships in advance and arrange a mark so that you know which to overlook. It’s as easy as that, and you’ll be paid handsomely for it.” _

_ It seemed too easy to believe.  _

_ “What will be in the containers?” he’d asked stupidly. _

_ “Why would you want to know that, my Lord?” Collio had exclaimed, and Jorah had realized that he was right.  _

_ Jorah had agreed to the arrangement, and out of necessity, had brought a few of his sergeants and corporals on board, a combination of daft and naive young men who’d obeyed him without question and heartless cutthroats who wouldn’t have hesitated to stab him in the back if not for his rank and position, giving them a fraction of each payment for their silence. He didn’t trust any of them, but that’s why he’d picked them, for the men he’d trusted would never have agreed to the arrangement.  _

_ He simply doesn’t want to pay the proper tariffs, he’d told himself. Whatever was in the containers was harmless and completely legal. He’d nearly believed it too, though a dark voice whispered that it might be drugs.  _

_ And it was easy. The first few times, he’d nervously overseen the entire inspection himself, until one of his sergeants had told him that the officers never stuck around for more than a few minutes and that he made it look suspicious. Besides, the men he’d picked managed it so flawlessly themselves that soon, he’d only made a cursory appearance and then gone to the office on the docks set aside for the senior officer on duty, and he’d read or nap or do pushups for there was little else to do. _

_ Several weeks later, as Jorah had lounged in the office drinking his coffee, which he’d recently begun to spike with whiskey from his flask, there’d been a knock on the door, and one of his corporals had come in. _

_ “Captain, beggin your pardon, but might I speak to you for a moment about… the containers?” _

_ “What about them?” he’d said sitting up and quickly hiding his flask which he’d foolishly left on the desk.  _ He wants more money _ , he’d thought. He was giving the enlisted men a tiny fraction of Collio’s payments, but he’d thought it would be enough given the meagerness of their regular pay. _

_ “I- I don’t want to do it anymore, m’Lord.” _

_ “Why not?”  _

_ “I opened one on accident, m’Lord.” _

_ “How do you  _ accidentally _ open a sealed container? I told you to leave them as they were!” The man was a simpleton, that’s why he’d picked him, but the task wasn’t hard.  _

_ “Well, I heard a noise from within, Captain.” _

_ “What sort of noise?” _

_ “I wasn’t certain, but it sounded like crying.” _

_ “Crying? Are you bloody mad? Why would there be crying in a shipping container?” _

_ The man had not answered. He’d looked as if he might cry himself.  _

_ Jorah had sighed. “What is it, Corporal? Speak.” _

_ “There was girls in the container, m’Lord.” _

_ “ _ Girls _ ?” Jorah had repeated dumbly. “What on earth are you talking about? What do you mean, _ girls _ ?”  _

_ “Well, women maybe, but they was young, m’Lord. Most of ‘em seemed to be unconscious or sleeping or- or I dunno, maybe dead, but one of ‘em was cryin, m’Lord, just like I heard.” _

_ For several heartbeats, Jorah had stared at him dumbfounded, not understanding what he was saying.  _ Gods help me _ , Jorah had thought suddenly, feeling the blood drain from his face as realization hit him. He’d stood quickly and pulled on his jacket.  _

_ “What did you do with them?” _

_ “What do you mean, m’Lord?” _

_ “What did you do with the girls? Where are they?” _

_ The young man had stared at him as if he had asked him the location of dragons or white walkers or some other mythical beast.  _

_ “Where are they?” Jorah had yelled as he pulled the man with him out the door and headed towards the pier. _

_ “In the container, m’Lord. I- I didn’t know what to do. There was too many men about so I resealed the container and marked it off just like you showed me. What else was I to do, Captain?” _

_ “Fuck,” Jorah had muttered as he’d begun to run, dragging the corporal after him. “I need you to show me the container. I need you to remember which one it was.”  _

How can I get them off without being caught? There must be a way. Please, let there be a way _ , he’d prayed to the Gods of his father whom he barely believed in anymore. _

_ “But the ships already set off, Captain.” _

_ Jorah had stopped running and stood trying to catch his breath for he’d felt as if his lungs had ceased to work. It was too late. _

_ After a few moments, he was able to compose himself. “Alright. It’s alright, Corporal. You did nothing wrong. I’ll take care of it. You needn’t worry. There will be no more girls, no more containers.” _

_ “Did you know, m’Lord?” _

_ “Of course, I didn’t know! Seven hells, man, do you think me-” He’d grabbed him by the collar and shook him. “This never happened. Do you understand me, Corporal? You must speak of this to no one. Not a word or you’re a dead man.” _

_ “Yes, Captain,” the young man had stammered. _

_ \--- _

_ Jorah had attempted to contact Collio as soon as he’d gotten off duty, but it had taken two days to track him down, and another two days before he would be back in Deepwood Motte. As he’d waited, Jorah had barely been able to sleep, and food had tasted like dust. It was all he could do to act with some semblance of normalcy as he went about his days though Dacey had asked him if he was ill. Lynesse, who was pleased enough to have her credit card working again, had complained about his sudden lack of stamina in bed- “I don’t know why you were so upset before, I only wanted to buy a gift for you,” she’d said twirling in the lacy lingerie she’d bought. “Yet, now I’m worried I wasted it on an old man who can’t last more than a minute,” she’d teased- but all he could think of was the slave girl from Naath that he’d fucked in Astapor.  _

_ He’d nearly spilled his secret to Dacey, nearly begged her to help him out of the mess. But she’d called Winterfell when she didn’t even believe Lynesse’s accusations. What would she do if he actually confessed to a far greater crime? No, he could not tell her, he’d concluded. She’d do her duty first and foremost, even if it meant his own downfall. And Stark would never believe that he hadn’t known, not that he’d care. He’d behead him without a moment’s hesitation. He’d have to get out of it on his own.  _

_ When at last the time of the arranged meeting came, in the same shabby dockside pub, it had taken every ounce of self-control to not throttle the man on sight.  _

_ “You didn’t tell me there’d be girls in the containers,” he’d hissed with no preamble, cutting off Collio’s greeting as he sat at the table. _

_ “Ah, you looked. I thought you didn’t want to know. But what on earth did you think was in them?” _

_ “I thought you didn’t want to pay tariffs! Or maybe that it was drugs, at worst!” Jorah had said in despair. _

_ “Well, you were half right. Drugs come in, girls go out.” _

_ “Where are they going? What are you doing with them?” he’d asked, as if he didn’t already know, deep down. _

_ “They go to Essos, of course- some to Pentos and Tyrosh, and Lys, some to Volantis, some to Slaver’s Bay. A few of the sailors take care of them and break them in on the journey, then it only requires a little training once they reach their destination. What can I say? Some men prefer to fuck Westerosi girls. They are quite popular in the brothels in certain cities. You served in Astapor, did you not, Lord Mormont? Surely, during your months away from home you sought some comfort from a familiar looking girl who spoke the common tongue. Or do you have a more exotic taste? Either way, the war may be over, but the demand remains in many parts of Essos.”  _

_ “Damn you, you cunt, I should kill you right now, and make your worthless body disappear into the bay” he’d said reaching for his dagger. He’d not brought his handgun or Longclaw with him. They made him too conspicuous as a nobleman though he’d regretted his lack of arms now. _

_ “Look around you, my Lord. Do you think I came to meet you alone?” Collio had asked coldly, and Jorah had glanced carefully about. Amongst the throng of rough looking sailors and longshoremen, he saw more than a few men watching them. “Unless you calm yourself, it is you who may end up disappearing into the bay.” _

_ Jorah had taken several deep breaths and showed his hands. “Alright. I understand.”  _ Breath, breath, breath. _ “I apologize for my outburst. But I’m done. There’ll be no more containers on my watch.” _

_ Collio had laughed again. “I paid you for how many shipments upfront? Ten, I believe? Well, you have only delivered on six of those. So I will need the money back with interest because now I will need to rearrange things. And I’ll need your noble word that you will stay silent on the matter. Not that you can speak of it to anyone without implicating yourself...” _

_ Jorah had already spent the money- all of it- on credit card payments and car payments and bank loan payments and on a very small gift for Lynesse. “I will get you the money as soon as I can. And you have my word. I’ll speak of this to no one.”  _ But I’ll slit your throat if I ever see you alone _ , he’d thought. _

_ “I do not give loans, Lord Mormont, especially to men who handle their money as poorly as you.” _

_ “I- I don’t have the money right now. There must be another way. I simply cannot help you with your girls anymore. My- my men will not allow it.” He’d done his best to sound humble though he could barely contain his fury or his desperation. _

_ “Well, there may be a way,” Collio had nearly purred as he twirled the edge of his ridiculous mustache. “I understand Bear Island is home to one of the new military detainee camps, is that correct?” _

_ “Aye,” he’d said cautiously, not understanding what Collio was getting at.  _

_ _

_ \--- _

_ The cold March air, not quite as biting as it would have been a month prior, had still stung his cheeks as he’d waited for one of his corporals to bring a truck up to the keep. He’d bid Lynesse good night an hour prior, telling her he’d be to bed soon, and he had half a mind to simply go back inside and join her, to warm himself beneath the blankets, to stretch her out beneath him, to- He’d shaken the image from his mind and taken a few quick pulls from his flask to steel his nerves and still the shaking of his hands.  _

_ This had to be done. Then he could join her.  _

_ The corporal was named Dirk. He’d been demoted twice during his long tenure in the army, once for extorting and abusing smallfolk while on patrol in the Wolfswood, even allegedly raping a woman when her husband would not pay a bribe, and once for nearly beating a new private to death during a hazing ritual. He was known throughout the regimental barracks as Dirk the Demon because it was common knowledge that he was a sadistic cunt who seemed to take pleasure in causing others pain. Jorah had despised him and would have drummed him out of the army if he could, but that’s why he’d picked him. He was likely the only one of his men up to the task at hand. _

_ Dirk had driven the truck, while Jorah had stared out the window. There was a crowd in Mycha’s pub, and Jorah had very nearly told Dirk to stop the truck so that he could go inside and lose himself in his cups amidst the bustle of the warm barroom instead of continuing with the task at hand. A block away, Nora’s home was dark, though he saw a trail of smoke rising from the chimney, and he had considered stopping to say hello. He’d not spoken to her in years, though he’d asked after her in roundabout ways when he spoke to Asher. But the corporal hadn’t known his thoughts, and Jorah hadn’t voiced them, and soon, the twinkling lights of the village were in the rearview mirror, and the only light was that put out by the truck as they turned onto a gravel road. _

_ “Thank you for thinking of me for this, Captain,” Dirk had said, breaking the silence. _

_ Jorah had grunted in response.  _

_ “Pardon me for speaking my mind, Captain, but some of the men you picked for the other job were bad choices,” Dirk had continued uninvited. “The simpleton for example. He’s too soft, he’ll snitch. I can kill him for you if you’d like.” _

_ “He’ll not say a word,” Jorah had said sharply. He hadn’t told the men what had happened, only that there would be no more overlooked containers. “Don’t touch him.” _

_ “As my Lord commands,” Dirk had said before silence returned between them for the rest of the drive. _

_ As both Lord of the Island and a captain in the regiment, the guards on duty at the camp stood aside and did not question him as he’d looked through the paperwork and ordered the prisoners roused for roll call though it was well past midnight.  _

_ “These men are to be transferred to the Shadow Tower Prison tomorrow afternoon, correct?” he’d asked the sergeant of the guard, motioning towards two Iron Islanders who stood shivering with the other prisoners outside of their flimsy barracks.  _

_ “Yes, Captain.” _

_ Any man bound for the Shadow Tower was most likely to be executed.  _ They might be allowed to take the Old Oath, to take the Black _ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind. But what life was that, to be a criminal bound to the Wall? It was slavery by another name, though it would be his Lord father who’d be their master.  _

_ “I need to take them for questioning before they’re transferred. They most likely won’t be back until after your watch ends. I’ll speak to your relief when I bring them back.” _

_ But he still needed two more men.  _

_ “There are no others to be transferred within the week?” He’d tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. _

_ “No, m’Lord.” _

_ His forged paperwork would not stand up to careful scrutiny, and it would be too suspicious to take a man without an immediate transfer date. But Collio had demanded four strong men. He’d continued to scan the assembled men and their papers, a feeling of panic welling up within him. Then his eyes fell on the poachers. He’d put off hearing their decision for weeks because then there was no going back, and he truly didn’t want to take their hands. But they were Bear Islanders to the bone, strong, broad shouldered men, used to hard work. They would do. _

_ “I’m taking those two as well,” he’d said, pointing to the two grown men.  _ The boy will tell. He’ll be the end of you _ , a voice had whispered. And if he added a fifth to the batch, Collio had said there’d be a bonus. He still needed the money. He was still in debt, and he’d promised Lynesse a holiday to Highgarden. The boy was old enough, nearly grown, and once he filled out, he had the looks to be as strong as his father. “And the lad, too. This’ll be the last you see of them. I’ll hear their decision in the morning.”  _

_ He’d taken their files and watched as his chosen five were shackled and loaded into the truck. Then, he and the corporal had driven as far west as the roads would let them before unloading the men and marching them on foot the rest of the way to the shore, Dirk taking great pleasure in shoving them along and striking them with his rifle butt until Jorah had told him to stop.  _

_ “Where are we being taken, m’Lord?” asked one of the Bear Islanders nervously, but Jorah had ignored him, and Dirk had smacked him in the jaw for his insolence.  _

_ When they got to the shore, he’d used a flashlight to give the agreed upon signal, and a short time later, Collio and several of his men came ashore in a motorboat. _

_ “Strip them,” Collio had ordered his men. _

_ “Is that really necessary? It’s freezing out,” Jorah had protested. _

_ Collio had laughed. “You worry for their comfort? I need to ensure that you’re giving me quality goods.” _

_ The same Bear Islander had seemed to realize what was happening before the rest. “I wish to take the Black, m’Lord. My son and me both. We’ll serve your Lord father well, m’Lord. Please.” _

_ Jorah had not looked at him, staring out into the blackness of the bay instead, hoping Collio would hurry up with his inspection. _

_ “Damn you, Mormont,” the other Bear Islander had cursed, also catching on to what was happening. “The Gods will repay you for this.” _

_ The first had broken away for a moment and thrown himself at Jorah’s feet. “Please, m’Lord. Spare my son at least. He’s a good boy. It’s my fault that he was with me.” Collio’s men grabbed him, beating him to the ground as Jorah had backed away as quickly as he could. “Please, I know you’re an honorable man. Let him go to the Wall!” he’d continued to cry as his son stood silently shivering and near tears. _

_ Jorah had tried to calm himself, to hear only the crashing of the waves and the whispering of the wind, to breathe and to still the sudden shaking in his limbs.  _ This’ll be over soon, and then I’ll be free of it. I had no other choice. It had to be done,  _ he’d told himself. _

_ “They all seem fit. It was a pleasure doing business. Here’s your payment for the fifth as promised. Tis a pity you didn’t want to bring me a few more,” Collio had said a few moments later, counting out a large pile of bills. “I am sorry you don’t wish to continue in this partnership, but if you change your mind, you know how to get in touch, Lord Mormont.” _

_ Jorah had snatched the money, ignoring his proffered hand. “Let’s go,” he’d snapped to the corporal, striding back towards the truck, leaving the sounds of rifle butts and clubs connecting with flesh and men crying out and cursing behind him.  _

_ Back at the truck, he’d taken a lighter to the files, and then they’d driven in silence back towards the camp.  _

_ “Did you see the boy piss himself, Captain?” Dirk had broken the silence with a laugh. _

_ Jorah had grit his teeth, his fingers itching to throttle him, or to kill him even, but he’d managed to pretend to ignore him, and Dirk had taken the hint. _

_ Once at the camp, he’d handed Dirk his share of the money and told him to go on his way. He’d had a few more pulls from his flask as he’d waited for the guard change, trying desperately to calm himself. Then he’d strode into the small office at the entrance. _

_ The lieutenant still looked half asleep, but he’d sprung to his feet and saluted when Jorah had entered. _

_ “At ease,” he’d said, and handed him the forged paperwork. “Your sergeant may have told you, but I took some men for questioning earlier. A few of mine decided to take the Black, so we sent these two along as well. I figured no need to have two separate transports to the Wall on one day. The details are all in the papers.”  _

_ It was a long walk back to the keep, and he’d thought to return to his bed as quickly as possible and to hold Lynesse, but instead, he’d found himself walking through the forest to the cave he’d played in as a child. “What have I done?” he’d whispered into the darkness, nearly sick with guilt and grief. “Gods help me, what have I done?” He’d wanted to cry then, but he knew no Gods would take pity on such tears, no Gods would help him, no Gods would hear him, not after this. _

_ When he’d finally returned to the keep, just as the sun began to rise, Lynesse had opened her sleep bleary eyes as he’d entered their chambers and asked him where he’d been all night. _

_ “I was taking care of business.” _

_ “Oh,” she’d said, rolling over. “Well come to bed.” _

_ He’d set the money on the bedside table. “I’ve done a terrible thing, love.” _

_ “Why?” She’d eyed him suspiciously. _

_ She’d been unperturbed when he’d hinted that her brother’s contact dealt in illegal smuggling and equally dismissive and uninterested when he’d told her that he needed to stop, though he’d not told her what was in the containers. “Do what you must, Jorah,” she’d said at the time. “I’m sure you’ll find another way to make the money you need.” _

_ “For that,” he’d said now, motioning to the money. “For you. So that you might live as my queen.” _

_ Her eyes lit up. “It couldn’t have been so terrible, Jorah. Is it enough for the airplane tickets? But I must buy a few gifts for my niece and nephews first. Alerie says that little Margaery just loves music boxes these days. Remember the one we saw in Winterfell with the gold plate and the crystal ballerina? If I can give that to her when we go to Highgarden, I would be the best aunt in the world. I’m sure we could find a better one in Lannisport, but-” _

_ “He deals in humans, Lynesse,” he’d whispered desperately. “I took men from the camp. I needed to be free of him, so I-” _

_ “Hush!” For a brief moment, she’d looked concerned, even horrified. _

She’ll hate me now,  _ he’d thought in despair. Who could love a man who’d done what he did? _

_ But then she’d reached up and pulled him down onto the bed beside her. “Hush, my love.” She’d cupped his cheek and kissed him, and he’d melted with brief relief as he’d tasted her sweet, soft mouth. “You’ll speak no more of this, my bear. Not a word. Not ever. What’s done is done. I love you, and I know you love me. That’s what matters. Now come, I’ve missed you.”  _

_ And as she’d pulled his shirt over his head, her mouth trailing kisses down his neck and chest, and as his hands divested her of her pricey, lacy undergarments, he’d told himself it was worth it for her love. But his heart told him it was a lie.  _

_ He did not speak of it again. _


	46. Chapter 27 - Selmy - October 1303 AC

**Chapter 27 - Selmy - October 1303 AC**

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said, approaching the Queen as she climbed down from her helicopter. He had to shout to be heard. “I’ve had news from Tyrion Lannister.”

“What news?” she replied sharply. “He’s not been executed yet?”

“No, it would appear he’s escaped. He swears he was not involved in the plot against you. He was told you were dead, and thus decided to look out for his family’s best interest since he saw no better options, but he wishes to join us now that... the opportunity has presented itself to him.” 

“How convenient for him. It would appear he served his family quite well up until he murdered his nephew. I thought that we’d determined he was instrumental in planning the defense of King’s Landing against Stannis,” Daenerys said, shaking out her long braid as she removed her helmet and headset. She trained daily, and Darry said she was nearly ready for a solo flight, a prospect that worried Barristan to no end. “Do you believe him?”

“I’m not certain, but from what little I learned while in the capital, it is certainly possible that he was ignorant of the plot against your father, and he never liked Robert. He doesn’t deny that he has been involved in military strategy for his family since then, though he seems to think that should be all the more reason for us to welcome him back. And I never sensed that he ever got along well with his sister or his father. In fact, it appears he may have been involved in killing Lord Tywin.” News of Joffrey’s death and Tyrion’s trial had reached them months ago, but he’d only just heard of Tywin’s demise in the past week. 

“His father and his nephew both?” Daenerys sounded surprised, but not disgusted.

“That is the rumor, and he did not deny it in his message. He’s also provided us with some additional intelligence on Lannister strengths and strategy which may prove his loyalty.” He paused a moment, to let her digest that information before continuing. “And he asks if Lord Varys might be welcome. It seems the Spider has had a falling out with the Lannisters as well.”

“The Spider tried to have me killed. That’s who- why would I welcome such a man?”

“Technically, it was Robert who tried to have you killed. Varys only helped. He _ would _ bring us a wealth of information. There is little honor in the trade, but spies have their uses, and no one has a wider reaching network than him. He changes sides as it suits him, but better to have him on your side than that of your enemy if you can believe him. And Tyrion vouches for him.”

She frowned and considered his words for a long while.

“Very well, if they can come to us, I will hear them both out,” she said. “Tell them to make haste. I want to move on Dragonstone now that we have ships.”

“I thought you intended to winter at Harrenhal, Your Grace. And what about the Twins?” _ This is quite the change of plans _. He’d spent days in communication with the Northerners planning for a joint attack on the last Frey stronghold. 

“Lord Stark conspired with Robert. If I’m to forgive him for that, he needs to give up his claim to the North.”

“He’s expecting our support, Your Grace, and we’ve already pushed off the campaign twice now.”

“And I’ve told you, I expect his fealty. I’ll send enough men to cut off any retreat should the Frey’s attempt to move south, but no more until he bends the knee. The Lannisters are the greater threat to me, and thus, they shall be my focus. And I understand that Dragonstone may not hold the greatest strategic value, but it holds great symbolic importance to me. I’m sorry I did not tell you earlier, but I’ve just made up my mind. I planned to tell you this afternoon. I’ll need you to make the preparations.”

Ser Barristan opened his mouth to protest but then changed his mind, bowed, and returned to the command room. He worried over the maps, the troop numbers, and their supplies. He was once again Lord Commander, and it was his duty to worry on behalf of the Queen. In the words of the Starks, winter was coming, and he needed to ensure they had the supplies necessary to feed and clothe an army as well as the civilian population. He needed ammunition and guns. He needed fuel. He also needed to find a way to hold together an army that he feared was spread too thin and soon to be spread thinner. 

That was Naharis’ work. Barristan warned her against it before, and he recalled that Mormont had done the same when they first started their conquest of the Riverlands, but Naharis saw no problem in simultaneously making pushes against three fronts. The damned sellsword was forever making his job more difficult. And now he’d need to make a plan to take and secure Dragonstone as well. 

\---

It would be so much easier if they had the North fully on their side. It would bring manpower, resources, and just as importantly, Ned Stark’s steady leadership. With Robert, Stannis, and now Tywin gone, Ned Stark stood head and shoulders above the remaining High Lords in reputation and in military experience, and he’d bring other able commanders such of Ser Rodrick, Roose Bolton, and Rickard Karstark with him. But now it was all he could do to keep Daenerys from openly making war against them.

Ser Jorah had been gone for several days before she seemed to make the connection.

“Ser Barristan, how did Ned Stark know so much about Robert’s conspiracy if… He was on his side from the beginning, wasn’t he?” she’d asked suddenly in their council meeting. She’d never asked for a full account of his mission to the North after banishing Mormont. In fact, she’d seemed to avoid it, but now she demanded every detail, and when it became clear that Lord Stark had, at least to some extent, conspired with Robert against her father, she’d become furious. The fact that he’d lost his son and wife in the ensuing carnage did nothing to gain her sympathy. “And you swear you knew nothing of it?” she’d asked him sternly.

“I swear on my honor as a knight,” he’d told her. She’d sniffed dismissively at that but had let the matter drop.

In retrospect, Barristan realized that he should have seen it coming. “He’s gone completely mad, Selmy,” Robert had said to him after a small council meeting nearly a year and a half before the coup. 

“Is there nothing we can do?” Ser Jaime had asked several months before Viserys had died. “He’s going to tear the country apart.”

“We are sworn to serve and protect, Jaime. And to obey. It is not our place to question the King,” he’d reminded the younger knight.

“Surely he must listen to you from time to time, Lord Commander,” Varys had said to him not too long after when Aerys had begun ranting incessantly about burning all of his enemies and bombing his own cities. 

“He hasn’t listened to me on matters of state in nearly twenty years,” Barristan had responded wearily. “He’ll take my advice on how but not who to fight.”

Yet, even after Rhaeger and his family had perished in a helicopter crash, and even after Viserys died when he wrecked his car, he had not suspected the conspiracy around him… Robert, Stannis, Cersei, Jaime, Tywin, Varys, Baelish, and even Ned Stark in the end, though Stark had been kept in the dark about plenty as well.

“I wish Robb would have told me,” Stark had sighed at Winterfell as he and Barristan had dined. “I knew he’d gone on a date or two with the Princess, and I’d warned him to take care, but I never knew it was so serious. I wish he’d told me they’d wed, and that she was with child. I might have recognized the danger to them all if he had.”

As Ned told it, he’d known that Robert had some plan to overthrow Aerys only after Rhaegar had died. “I only came fully on board when I learned that Aerys wanted to firebomb Storm’s End. He had to go. He’d have killed thousands of his own citizens simply to spite Robert. And you know as well as I that Viserys was as mad as his father. But I’d thought we’d agreed to take the Princess alive, and she’d be allowed to abdicate and go into exile in Pentos. I thought it would prevent a war. If I’d known she was married and pregnant… If I’d known that Cersei and her father were playing Robert for a fool...” 

The pain in his voice was too raw for it to be a lie, Barristan had decided. 

\---

Once she’d finally asked, he’d shared every detail with Daenerys and as a result, they were still without an alliance with a major house in Westeros as the war dragged on. Still, he’d hoped they might close in on the Twins, together, and through that cooperation, create a friendship, but now that plan seemed not to be.

The Dothraki had arrived a month prior and had been surprisingly reliable thus far, and they finally had their planes and ships from Qarth though a dearth of experienced pilots and sailors. Ned Stark’s army had stood ready to march on the Twins since June. Yet, still, they had stayed at Harrenhal after being bogged down the whole summer trying to rebuild and quell minor uprisings in the city and surrounding countryside. 

He’d suggested they move on, as had her other advisors. Harrenhal was a major city, but it could be held with a fraction of her army, and it held little strategic importance. Its occupation would bring them no great allies. They should leave Harrenhal to march on the Twins and then King’s Landing or Casterly Rock, he’d said since before it had even been taken, but chaos had descended on Riverrun once she’d withdrawn most of her forces from that city, little of her territory had regular functioning services such as electricity, water and sewage, gas, or even reliable policing or medical service, and insurgents had for all intents and purposes retaken Stony Sept and Pinkhaven. 

“How can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule and hold a single city?” she’d asked. “I will not leave the people of Harrenhal to starve in chaos. I did not free them only to be retaken by men who would undo all their gains. I will stay and rule. I will be a Queen.” 

Apparently, she’d changed her mind.

Despite it all, he thought Daenerys was doing admirably well. 

Rhaeger had been raised to be a King. He’d sat in on small council meetings since his 13th name day and spent time learning the ins and outs of each ministry in the summers thereafter. Yet, his head was in the clouds more often and not. He’d told Barristan once, when he was a teenager, that he’d just assume to be a musician as a king.

And while he was level headed most of the time, his impulsiveness had nearly torn the realm apart at that party at Harrenhal so long ago. 

Daenerys had been raised to be married off as a political pawn. She was young and sometimes impulsive, but she showed a far more natural knack for ruling and politics than her eldest brother ever had. While still idealistic, she was becoming more adept at the practical side of ruling. Yes, she was prone to fits of anger, but her kindness and empathy for the common people still shone through more often than not. 

If only he could moderate her impulsiveness and her temper. He’d tried to stop her from flying. Even in peace times, helicopters were dangerous, he’d tried to explain, but she would not be dissuaded. Just as she hadn’t been dissuaded from executing Freys at Riverrun or the leadership at Harrenhal after the siege. Just as she stubbornly insisted that Stark come to her and bend the knee if he wanted help with the Twins. Just as she had suddenly decided that she wanted Dragonstone after all.

It seemed a futile effort though. He knew of only one advisor who’d ever succeeded in taming her more impulsive side, and he was gone.

She’d moved on from Ser Jorah admirably, having not spoken of him a single time since his banishment. Once, Irri had made the mistake of mentioning him, and Daenerys had snapped, “If you say that traitor’s name in my presence again, you’ll join him in banishment.” It was just as well to forget him if she could even if her fondness was misplaced and built on his lies. No good would come from dwelling on the past. Barristan knew that from personal experience all too well.

Unfortunately, she’d taken the Tyroshi mercenary back into her bed. It was not for him to judge, but he thought it had done nothing to improve the Queen’s state of mind, and it had only increased Daario’s own sense of self-importance and power. He disregarded Barristan’s commands half the time and seemed to have learned nothing from his ill-fated raid that had landed him in captivity for nearly half a year. 

Torgo Nudo was reliable, but he was much better at obeying than commanding and had not yet learned the art of the larger strategy of battles. There was a shortage of quality officers outside the ranks of the Unsullied. While he would never admit it out loud, he found that he missed Ser Jorah’s skill in certain matters and even his gruff, commanding presence. The man was a traitor and oathbreaker, not to mention an unchivalrous brute and slaver, but he was a good captain in the field- calm, brave, and sensible, unlike Naharis who took unnecessary risks to stoke his own ego and unlike Lord Darry, who hadn’t the first clue about ground combat even if he had the Queen’s ear during their training sessions. And Mormont had been able to reason with the Queen like no one else. 

\---

Barristan remembered Mormont’s lone request when he’d led him to a room to await the Queen’s pleasure after the Battle of Harrenhal. He was still covered in shit and sweat and blood, but he had only one concern. “Let me speak to her alone.” 

“You will never be alone with her again,” Barristan had told him firmly. _ If the Queen is wise, you will never so much as see her again after today. _ Mormont had been able to influence the Queen like no other, oftentimes for the better and occasionally for the worse, and he wondered if the Queen would have forgiven her favorite knight if he’d spun some story and not been forced to confess his crimes before the entire court.

Despite his general dislike for the man and his disdain for his crimes, he’d felt a twinge of sympathy, or perhaps, pity, when it was all done. He’d kept him under guard as Ser Jorah had packed up his things, but when one of his men had told him he still hadn’t left near 5 am, he’d gone himself.

“It will be dawn soon,” Barristan had said when he entered the room as Mormont looked up expectantly. He thought perhaps the younger knight held out hope that the Queen would recall him. “You’d best be on your way if you like your head where it is.” 

Mormont had sighed and risen to his feet, heaving his bag onto his shoulder. 

“Will you go to the Lannisters?”

Mormont had given a bitter laugh. “Even if you think me the worst sort of liar and traitor, surely you must realize that I broke my bargain with the Spider as well.”

He had a point. And Lord Varys didn’t grow his extensive network by showing mercy to the little birds who crossed him. _ He has nowhere to go. _

“Go back to Essos if you can. You were able to make a life there before. You can do so again. You may be able to find a smuggler from the Vale to take you across.” 

Mormont gave a barely discernible nod. Barristan suddenly realized he had no weapons. He may have thought that the Queen should have ordered him executed, both to make an example of him and to ensure that he and his knowledge didn’t fall into the wrong hands, but she had chosen to spare him. To send him out as he was would be little better than execution. Besides, it seemed wrong, dishonorable even, to send a knight out into such chaos unarmed. _ He won’t last a day _. 

“Give him his body armor, belt, and a few rounds,” he instructed one of the soldiers guarding him. There was still a shortage of firearms and of ammunition, they certainly could spare no rifles, but he would stand a chance with his pistol and sword. He watched Mormont buckle his weapons belt with that absurd peacock feather adorned scabbard. 

“Perhaps you’d like a less conspicuous scabbard for your journey,” Barristan suggested.

“No,” Mormont answered quickly, gripping it tightly as if he meant to wrestle Barristan for it.

“As you wish. You can take your horse as well,” he’d said. He suddenly recalled that the scabbard had been a gift from the Queen which was the only reason he’d allowed Ser Jorah to wear it in the first place when he’d guarded the Princess on her rides so long ago. He thought it odd because Mormont had never struck him as the sentimental type.

If Mormont was grateful for the weapons, he hadn’t shown it, but he had gone compliantly enough to the gates of the city. _ It might have been kinder to kill him _ , Barristan thought as he watched him ride away just as the sun peeked over the horizon _ . _Barristan hoped he would manage to find his way to Essos. His knowledge would be dangerous if he was found by the Queen’s enemies, or if he went to them willingly. Perhaps Stark will catch him and put him out of his misery, he’d thought. 

\---

Now, nearly half a year later, Barristan was beginning to truly feel his age as he spent sun up to sun down on his duties. It would be good to have the help of another experienced, level headed soldier. He shook his head at that thought though. Mormont was gone, and it was good riddance. He would need to pick up the slack himself until Torgo Nudo was fully trained for that young man had the makings of a great general.

He called for a signal’s officer and dictated an encrypted message that was to be sent to Tyrion Lannister. Then he turned to the maps of Dragonstone.


	47. Nomad - November 1296 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place between Ch. 35 “Loss” when Lynesse essentially banishes him and Ch. 10 “Dothraki” which recaps his time with the Dothraki, so it covers roughly a 4 year period. 
> 
> Trigger Warning - A portion of this chapter picks up right after Jorah lost Lynesse, so he’s depressed and does depressed Jorah stuff in response. For those of you who have been reading this story, you know it’s got a lot of dark, serious stuff going on, and this chapter is one of the darker ones… though I promise there is nothing darker than anything GRRM would write.

**Nomad - November 1296 AC**

_ “Come out, Andal,” the voice of one of his pursuers had echoed through the canyon. _

_ Jorah had squinted and shaded his eyes against the blazing sun and made a decision. He was nearly out of water, weak from lack of food, sunburnt, and exhausted with only three bullets left for his rifle. He’d been tracked by a band of horsemen, Dothraki by the looks and sounds of them, for two days, and now they’d truly had him cornered in some crevice near where the Red Waste met the Bone Mountains.  _ Here I stand,  _ he’d thought as he’d stepped out from between the boulders where he’d crouched hidden, his rifle steady but pointed downward.  _ If they mean me harm, let them kill me, and quickly.  _ It would be a small mercy to end three years of hardship.  _ Not that I deserve mercy, _ he’d reminded himself as two of the riders had dismounted and approached. _

_ He had thought he’d known hardship from his time at war, fighting in Astapor, the Iron Islands, and later on the Rhoyne. He’d thought he’d known poverty during his time in Lys. He’d thought himself tough and hardy from the harsh winters he’d endured on Bear Island. Yet, he’d belatedly discovered that his entire life prior to Lynesse’s betrayal was still that of a privileged officer, knight, and Lord. After Lynesse, he was nothing.  _

_ He had somehow made his way to the docks of Lys after he’d seen her for the last time, turning her back on him and going into the home of Tregar Ormollen. The merchant’s threat of slavery had left him scampering for escape despite his broken heart, and he’d taken passage on the first ship that would take him, only ensuring that it was not headed to Westeros or Slaver’s Bay. Days later, he’d arrived in Volantis with only his final paycheck to his name and all of his worldly possessions in a backpack. It was a strange city with strange customs, a strange dialect of Valayrian that he could scarcely understand, and air so hot and heavy that he’d thought he’d suffocate. He’d never felt so alone.  _

_ He’d paid for an airless room above an alley that smelled of rotting trash at a decrepit inn and then proceeded to blow nearly every copper he had left on whores and liquor, trying to forget all that he had lost, trying to numb his broken heart with temporary pleasure and drink.  _

_ The whores were slaves, he’d known, the tattoos on their cheeks dead giveaways, and he’d been filled with shame and guilt- guilt because he’d sworn he’d never do such a thing again after the girl in Astapor, guilt because he’d sent girls to their very same fate, guilt because though she’d left him, his actions betrayed his vows to Lynesse. Perhaps she hadn’t even gone through with the divorce. Perhaps she’d have him back someday, he’d told himself, and she’d be hurt to know he’d turned to whoring. He’d continued to wear his wedding ring after all. _

_ But he was desperate to find comfort as he had in the past, in the arms of a woman, even if she only pretended to desire him for a few hours because her master said she must. _

_ “I was married once,” he’d muttered in the Common Tongue as he lay on his back catching his breath, the blissful, mind numbing pleasure fading far too quickly as he’d watched the whore he’d just finished with clean herself up. She’d risen from the bed the instant he’d rolled off of her, likely as disgusted with him as he was though he’d tried to be considerate and gentle. She spoke not a word of the language- he always asked for girls who did not speak the Common Tongue for he wanted no one who might have come from Westeros, who might have come through Deepwood Motte. “Twice actually. Perhaps I still am, but she left me. I was no good for either of them.” _

_ “Are you scared of me, girl?” he’d said to another as she’d prepared to take him in her mouth. She’d looked at him with empty, emotionless eyes, but if he closed his own, he could almost pretend it was Lynesse, not that she’d indulged him in such a way since their honeymoon. “You should be. I’ve hurt every woman I’ve ever touched. I never meant to, but I did.” _

_ “My wife left me to be another man’s whore,” he’d spat at another, a blonde who might have been pretty once, as she shrank in fear, understanding his anger if not his words. “But Gods, I still love her,” he’d said more gently as he’d lightly touched her hair, only a shade darker than Lynesse’s, as soothingly as he could. He hadn’t meant to scare the girl. _

_ His days were consumed by thoughts of Lynesse, and his nights as well. She was his first thought upon waking, his last as he drifted into fitful sleep in the sweltering heat, and her ghost had flitted about just out of reach amidst the carnage of his other dreams- hellish visions of Astapor, Pyke, and the Rhoyne, and Sarra, his father, and his mother, and poachers and shipping containers full of girls. _

What did I do wrong?  _ he’d asked her ghost over and over.  _ I never deserved you, I know, but I tried my best to make you happy. You loved me, didn’t you? I know you did. Why did you stop? Why did you leave me?

_ He never should have joined the Golden Company, he’d concluded. He’d been a fool to leave her alone for so long in such a strange city. Of course, she’d been lonely and afraid, and Tregar Ormollen had poisoned her mind. He should have fought for her instead of just walking away. He should have killed Ormollen. He should have fallen to his knees and begged her forgiveness for whatever it was that he had done and pleaded with her to take him back. Perhaps he still could, or perhaps... _

_ He’d slept on the streets for a time once his money ran out, in back alleys and under bridges. Out of necessity, he’d finally sought work though he’d spent too much time drunk to hold a steady job. On the mornings when he was sober enough to walk, he’d stand on a designated street corner before dawn amongst a throng of day laborers, mostly migrants from Myr and New Valyria who competed with slaves for the worst sorts of jobs, hoping to get picked by the trucks that came looking for strong men for hard work. When he was lucky, which was often enough given his size, he’d spend his day from sun up to sun down at back-breaking labor for such paltry wages that he would have laughed at them when he was a Lord.  _

_ His calloused hands blistered and bled and calloused some more, his skin burnt and then tanned under a scorching sun that never seemed to cool even in the winter, and his already strong body became harder and leaner. He’d stay sober for a stretch of days until he had enough to last him a few days or even a week. Then he’d head to the nearest liquor store or bar.  _

_ He’d stopped going to brothels after a time because liquor was a far cheaper way to forget than buying a girl, and the loveless fucking of a slave left him feeling guilty and empty and terribly alone when it was done. And he needed to be faithful to Lynesse, he’d reminded himself whenever he was tempted, if he was to have a chance to win her back. He’d clung to the idea like a life raft in the midst of a raging storm, sure that if he let go, he’d truly be lost forever. _

_ _

_ This went on for months, until one suffocatingly hot day, sober but unable to find work, he’d wandered into the enormous public library in the city’s downtown area for its air conditioning. He’d ignored the condescending looks of the patrons, and the hostile stares of the staff as he’d browsed the shelves, filthy and unshaven, but he’d found himself not in the mood for a novel. He’d not been able to read a thing since he’d lost Lynesse. Instead, he’d wandered over to the microfilms and found a handful of Westerosi newspapers. He’d avoided news from home since fleeing just over a year before, but now, with more than a little apprehension, he’d pulled up editions from the past year. _

_ He’d learned from the  _ Winterfell Times  _ that five men under his command had been executed for the crime of human trafficking within days of his flight and another two had been allowed to take the Black. One of the condemned men hadn’t even been involved, he’d realized, and another life was added to the number that he’d destroyed. He had been found guilty in absentia and was listed as a fugitive from justice, beheading awaiting him should he ever dare to return. His picture, taken on the day he’d been knighted, had stared back at him from a lifetime ago. _

_ The Northern paper had sought comment from his father and aunt. Lady Maege, “aunt of the slaver and the new liege of Bear Island,” had declined to comment. The “much respected Lord Commander Jeor Mormont” had given the reporter a terse two sentence answer. “Jorah has brought shame upon himself, House Mormont, Bear Island, and the North. He may still bear my name, but he is no son of mine.”  _

_ He could almost hear his father’s gruff voice filled with scorn. He’d known his father would feel that way, but to see it in black and white, stated so publically, had still felt like a punch in the gut. _

_ He should have stopped then. Westeros was no longer his home and never would be again, but he couldn’t help himself, and thus he’d learned from a Highgarden daily paper that his divorce from Lynesse had been finalized. She’d been granted the divorce on the grounds that he’d abused her repeatedly throughout their marriage. Apparently, he’d admitted to it when he’d signed the papers in Lys.  _

_ “‘Lord Leyton Hightower spoke of his relief at the news,” the newspaper had said. “‘My sweet daughter has finally escaped the brute. I wish to convey my thanks to Lord Stark for pursuing justice. It’s a shame that he hadn’t been caught before he took Lynesse with him to Essos.’” _

_ But it was Lynesse’s words that left him reeling. _

_ “‘I am so happy to finally be free,’ the former Lady Mormont said through a House Hightower spokesman,” the paper had read. “‘When I met him, Jorah swept me off my feet. I loved him, and I thought he loved me because he deceived me with false promises, false kindness, and false apologies. That is what trapped me. I kept hoping the kindness would stay and that for once he would keep his word, but at his core, he is a selfish, weak, violent man, and it only got worse with time. He had such a temper and such physical strength, and I lived in constant fear. I truly believe he would have killed me in the end if Tregar [Ormollen] had not offered his protection, but now I can finally breathe again.’ Lady Lynesse now resides in Lys. Ser Jorah Mormont’s whereabouts are unknown. Lord Eddard Stark has vowed that he will be executed if he ever returns to Westeros...”  _

_ Jorah had stopped reading, his vision too blurred to continue, and walked out of the library back into the sticky, shimmering heat.  _

_ Though he was short on money and had intended to seek work again the next day, he’d found himself outside of a brothel before his reeling mind had even realized where he was going.  _ You never deserved her _ , he’d thought as he’d downed several drinks, unable to keep his eyes off of the scantily clad girls.  _ You’re a weak, selfish man, incapable of being true to her _ , he’d scolded himself as he’d pointed out a blonde and handed over his money.  _ She’s scared of you, you brute, _ he’d thought as he’d fucked the girl,  _ just like your Lady wife was _ . When he’d finished, he’d drank cheap liquor in the dimly lit lounge until he could barely walk though it did little to numb the pain.  _

_ As he’d staggered back to his rented room nearly blind from drink late that night, he’d been set upon by robbers. Sober, he might have fended them off more quickly, but in his drunken state, they’d taken his wallet and pried off his wedding ring which he’d stubbornly continued to wear. The wallet lost him little in terms of money, but it held the only picture he had left of his mother, and the ring, well the ring had meant more than money could ever buy. _

_ Bloodied and bruised, he’d dragged himself back to his room, nearly in tears over his losses, his last link to home, to his mother, to Lynesse. In despair, he’d pulled out his handgun from where he’d hidden it beneath the lumpy mattress and slammed the cold barrel against his temple. _

_ “Do it!” he’d shouted into the darkness, willing his finger to pull the trigger. “You fucking coward, do it!”  _

_ Later, he’d swear it was his mother’s voice that he’d heard, long forgotten with the passage of time though it was. “You must live, my son,” the voice had whispered across the years. “You must live, my sweet boy.” _

_ He’d awoken on the floor with a terrible hangover, the cocked gun beside him. He’d pulled off his filthy, sweat stained shirt, gone to the sink, and looked in the mirror. He’d taken in his brawny chest, covered in coarse, dark hair. He’d seen his many scars, from rugby and boxing and rough play as a child, from Astapor, from Pyke, from the Rhoyne, from training, from the plate Lynesse had shattered against his cheek. He’d examined his bloodshot eyes, his thick beard, his chapped and split lip, his weather worn skin, his disheveled and prematurely thinning hair, his generally uncomely face.  _

_ “She never loved you,” he’d said aloud. His voice was little more than a whisper and hoarse from dehydration. _

_ “She never loved you,” he’d said again, louder to make it real, and he’d thought his chest would shatter from the pain.  _

_ Perhaps he had deceived her by not explaining that he was the Lord of a poor House and a cold and desolate land, by not making sure she’d understood that Bear Island was not the Reach. Perhaps she’d loved who she’d thought he was at first but… _

_ “She lied.” He’d felt as if he was being crushed. He could barely breathe. But still, he spoke, “You never deserved her, but she lied. It was Sarra you hit, Sarra who feared you, not Lynesse. You never hit Lynesse.” _

_ “She never loved you, and she’ll never have you back. Why would she? Look at you!” he’d screamed at his reflection. “She never loved you, you ugly brute. She lied and played you for a fool, and look what you’ve done! You deserve this. You’ve lost her forever, and you’ll never go home again. Now you must live with it.”  _

_ He should have died in Astapor, he’d thought, and then Sarra would still live. He should have died at Pyke, and then he wouldn’t have ruined his House or sent innocents into a life of bondage or made Lynesse believe that he was more than he was. He should have died on the Rhoyne, and then he would never have known of Lynesse’s betrayal.  _

But here I stand,  _ he’d thought bitterly. _

_ “You need to live with it,” he’d muttered to his reflection again before slamming his fist into the mirror. Then with blood dripping from his knuckles, he’d gathered up the remaining bottles in his room and poured them down the sink.  _

_ \--- _

_ Fully sober, he’d sought real work. He’d briefly considered joining another mercenary company but weary of war, he’d instead looked for jobs in security. Still unfamiliar with the city, and as a foreigner, ineligible for most employment, he’d ended up asking at various bars and brothels that he’d previously frequented though it had crossed his mind that perhaps he should avoid such places and their temptations.  _

_ “Can you stay sober for more than a day?” the proprietor of one of the brothels had asked him with a laugh.  _

_ “I haven’t had a drink in a week.”  _

_ “You were here a week ago.” _

_ Jorah had just looked at him. _

_ “Fine, I can use you, but if you’re ever drunk on the job, I’ll fire you in a heartbeat.” He’d seemed pleased to have the multilingual but non-loquacious, dangerous looking ex-soldier to protect his girls… and to ensure that they didn’t attempt to escape. _

_ He’d been given a small room on the second floor that was stifling for its lack of air and did little to keep out the sounds of passion that pervaded the place night and day. But it was still better than the rooms he’d rented before, and for the first time since he’d arrived in Volantis, he was sure to have three meals a day. The girls cooked for him and washed his clothes, and the pay was reasonable to boot.  _

_ But Jorah had hated the job.  _

_ He’d despised the patrons, a collection of sadists, creeps, pompous cunts, and desperate, lonely men who’d reminded him of himself. He’d broken a man’s arm for punching one of the girls in the second week on the job. “I appreciate your enthusiasm for protecting my investments,” the proprietor had said, “But he was a regular. He always paid good money, and he didn’t mark her face. Take it a bit easier next time!”  _

_ He’d despised the proprietor too for treating the girls like the property they were. He’d ordered Jorah to beat a girl once, for talking back to a patron, and Jorah had refused. “I’m security, not your overseer,” he’d growled in the local dialect that he was quickly mastering. _

_ “You work for me, you’ll do as I say!” the proprietor had yelled at him. _

_ “Then fire me,” he’d said, walking into the kitchen, and there he’d sat reading and eating his midday meal, trying to shut out the girl’s cries as another of the men had beaten her instead. _

_ “If you despise our culture so much, perhaps you should return to Westeros so that you can serve and bow low to your Lords and King instead of standing tall as a free man,” the proprietor had said to him later, though he’d not fired him. “You seem to have conveniently forgotten your precious Westerosi honor when you were regularly paying to fuck my property not so long ago.” _

If I had any honor at all, I’d have broken your arm too, or maybe your neck _ , Jorah had thought, but he’d said nothing. _

_ It was easy enough work though. From time to time, he’d throw out an unruly patron who’d drunk too much or became too rough with one of the girls or he’d be tasked with escorting the girls to maesters’ appointments or hairdressers and the like, but otherwise, he’d spend his days free to do as he pleased. He’d wander the city or browse cheap paperbacks at used book stores or nap or workout, and at night, all he had to do most of the time was stand around and look intimidating. _

_ As for the whores, he’d wanted nothing to do with them. The other hired men took the girls as they pleased- a perk of the job, they’d said- and some of the girls offered Jorah their bodies as the only currency they had when they’d asked him for small favors. He’d do the favors most of the time- lifting something heavy, lending them one of his books and the like- but he’d simply shake his head at their offer of payment, and he’d done his best to ignore them the rest of the time. He was grateful that as far as he could tell, most of them avoided him as well and seemed to be afraid of him. He’d told himself that he wanted no woman, that he deserved no woman, not even a whore, but he was still a man after all, and he still had eyes. _

_ So as he’d walked a few of them back from a maester’s office one day several months into the job, he’d been startled when a new girl who’d been bought from another brothel only a week prior spoke to him. They’d walked slowly. He’d allowed them to window shop and take in the sights knowing that they were rarely allowed to leave the brothel, and besides, he had nothing else to do. Suddenly, the girl, whose back bore the scars of the lash, sidled up beside him and spoke perfectly in the Common Tongue. “Can you help us please?”  _

_ “With what?” he’d asked gruffly in Valyrian. _

_ “Can you help us escape?” she’d replied in the Valyrian of one who’d only been speaking the language for a year or two, and that had made his stomach drop. _

_ He’d looked around sharply and saw the other two girls he was escorting watching them furtively. “What gave you the idea that I’d do such a thing?” he’d asked in a whisper wondering if it was a trap. _

_ “The other girls say that you are a kind man,” she’d replied in Valyrian. “And that you are from my country,” she’d added in the Common Tongue, making his already queasy stomach boil and churn.  _

_ The other girls had come closer and were clearly listening. He’d had one of them, a blonde who’d likely been pretty before this life had worn her down, numerous times back when he was a patron and not an employee. He was certain that she was afraid of him. _

_ “Why would you tell her that?” he’d asked the other two genuinely confused. He was glowering and unfriendly even on the best of days.  _

_ “Because you  _ are _ kind,” the blonde had said. “You were kind to me when you had me in bed and even more so now. You are kind and you never ask for anything in return. I think you are like a knight in the Westerosi stories.”  _

_ “You are the only guard who doesn’t hit us and fuck us,” the third girl had added. “And you gave me your book once.” She’d said it as if he’d gifted her diamonds and not a tattered paperback. _

_ “Please take us away from here,” the blonde had said suddenly desperate. “I have a brother in Myr. He’ll pay you what he can. Or take us to Westeros. We could be your mistresses on the way. I think you enjoyed me before. I would do whatever you’d like.”  _

_ He’d stood stunned ever so briefly.  _ If you are any knight at all, you’d protect these innocent women with your life. If you are any knight at all, this could be your redemption.

_ But they wouldn’t stand a chance. Their tattoos marked them as slaves. He’d be caught if he even tried to take one, nevermind three, and then he’d be killed, or worse, enslaved himself. And he was no white knight. He was a selfish, weak man, just as Lynesse had said. _

_ “Do you know what I’ve done?” he’d choked out.  _ I sold men. I helped enslave girls like you,  _ he’d wanted to say but he couldn’t form the words _ .  _ “I beat my wife. I’ve killed women. I’ve fucked you when you had no choice in the matter. If you think me kind, it’s because you’ve known nothing but cruelty in your life. I am not a kind man. I cannot help you. Do not ask me again.” _

_ That night, the Westerosi girl had hung herself with her faux silk sheets. _

_ “Such a pity,” the proprietor had said as Jorah took her down. “Such a waste of money to only get a week out of her. Wrap her up and get her out of here. I don’t want the other girls to see and get any ideas.” _

_ “Forgive me,” Jorah had said to the girl as he’d closed her eyes.  _

_ He’d packed his bag and quit that very night. _

_ \--- _

_ A few days later, he’d sought out a recruiter for a mercenary company at a tavern. He had no desire to return to war, but he needed money to live, and he’d found no better alternatives. _

_ As he’d stood in a line of men and boys, none of whom looked like they could fight a lick, a fat man sitting at one of the tables with two tattooed girls on his lap had called to him in the Common Tongue and motioned him over. Jorah had ignored him at first, but he was so persistent, that finally, he’d gone to him. _

_ “Is something the matter?” he’d asked in Valyrian. He’d smelled the man’s sweat even from several feet away. _

_ “I’d had you pegged as a Westerosi,” the fat man had said in surprise. “But no matter. I happen to be on the market for former soldiers, and of that whole lot waiting to join the Windblown, you’re the only one who looks the part. I’ll pay you as much as they will with a far better likelihood to live.” _

_ “And what is it that you want me to do.” _

_ “Security. I own the largest trucking company in Essos. I’ve been losing far too much when Dothraki and other bandits ambush my caravans. I make a pact with one khal for safe passage only to have some rival or upstart break the pact and attack me and so on and so on. So I am upping my security to discourage such attacks. I’d like a man like you.” _

_ “What do you ship?” Jorah had asked. _

_ “Does it matter? _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “My fleet transports all sorts of things, but you’ll be guarding high-end items. Silk, gold and brass work, luxury vehicles, weapons…” _

_ “Slaves?” _

_ “Ah, I knew you were Westerosi. No, I don’t transport live goods though it seems an odd concern for a sellsword.” _

_ Jorah hadn’t liked the man, but as he’d laid out the details, it seemed a good job, and he was restless and desperate to get out of the stifling city. He’d accepted the offer after being assured he would never be on a convoy to Slaver’s Bay. _

_ So he’s found himself traveling from Volantis to Qohor to Vaes Dothrak then across the Red Waste on to Qarth and back time and again, and a few times to Pentos and Myr as well. _

_ He’d learned a bit of Dothraki. It had seemed a useful skill to have given his frequent crossing of their territory, and he’d tried to learn the basics of their culture as well. He’d taken in the sights of the Western and Eastern Markets where it seemed that all the cultures of the world collided and witnessed some of their ceremonies from a distance. He’d fought off attacks a time or two as well when small bands rebelled against some khal or another. He was a failure in so many things, but he was still good at fighting and killing. _

_ He’d drink a beer from time to time in the inns and the taverns where the convoys stopped and in the cities where they’d stay for a day or two, and he’d tried fermented mares milk once, but he never got drunk. He’d seen the Dothraki taking their women in the open and the alluring and revealing attire of the women of Qarth, and he’d seen the whores waiting for men like him at the way stations along the way. He’d been tempted, but he’d not touched a single one. He didn’t deserve a woman, he’d reminded himself, not a wife’s love or a whore’s false comfort or anything in between, and besides, he’d sworn to never let his fool’s heart lead him to ruin again.  _

_ He’d hoped to leave Lynesse behind in Volantis, but her ghost followed him, fainter now, fading even with the passing months and years, but always present and just out of reach. He’d realized one day that she’d been gone for nearly as long as he’d known her, and though the pain was still nearly constant, it was a dull ache mostly now, instead of a white hot brand on his heart.  _

_ Memories of home followed him too. He saw the beauty of the Great Grass Sea in full bloom, he saw the magnificent gardens of Qarth and the picturesque beaches of Pentos, but none soothed the ache for Bear Island and none compared to its beauty with its pine-covered slopes and flowering meadows and sparkling waterfalls and bay. He would never have Lynesse again, but he would go home, if he could, he’d told himself, as impossible as it seemed. It was all he prayed for any longer, the only hope he had left.  _

_ He’d made no friends during his travels because he wanted none, and one night after several years on the job, somewhere between Qarth and Vaes Dothrak, with the Bone Mountains to the east and the heart of the Red Waste to the west, he’d waved away the other men in the convoy as they’d called to him to join them. They were at a small way station for the night where there was sure to be liquor and at least a whore or two to share. He’d wanted none of it. Jorah had instead settled in the back of one of the parked trucks to eat and read by flashlight away from the loud, coarse laughter of the building. _

_ He’d been lost in a book of Valyrian poetry when suddenly he’d heard whooping and then gunfire and panicked shouts. He’d peaked out of the back of the truck and saw several dozen armed men in pickup trucks and on horseback sweeping down onto the way station. _

_ Jorah had scrambled for his rifle and returned fire, but they were terribly outnumbered and outgunned, and half the men from his convoy appeared to be drunk as they rushed from the building in various states of dress.  _

_ So Jorah had run. It was dishonorable. It once would have been unthinkable. But he fought for no cause but his own life now, and so he left his fellow travelers and fled amidst the cover of chaos and darkness into the mountains. He was a coward, but he was alive, at least for the moment.  _

_ He’d returned to the way station the next morning to find it smoking and deserted. Corpses littered the ground and the trucks were either burned out or gone. His backpack which he’d carried since Bear Island and which held the last traces of his former life was gone.  _

_ He’d wandered at the edge of the Red Waste for half a day until he’d noticed horsemen in the distance, and unable to tell if they were hostile, he’d retreated into the foothills. He’d been spotted though, and as he’d scampered through the rocky terrain on foot trying to lose his pursuers, he’d known that the mounted men were gaining on him. They were Dothraki, he was certain, though he was less certain if they were the same men who’d attacked the way station the day before. _

_ He’d managed to evade them for two days before finding himself trapped in a canyon, for all intents and purposes surrounded. _

_ “Come out, Andal,” the voice of one of his pursuers had echoed through the canyon.  _

_ He’d seemed destined to die there on the far side of the world from his home with no one who had ever cared for him the wiser. He’d suddenly regretted not mailing the postcard he’d bought in Qarth with the intention of sending it to Dacey unsigned. Perhaps the Gods would let him go home in the afterlife, he’d thought. _

No, you’re destined for hell _ , he’d reminded himself as he’d stepped into the open and two of the riders approached him on foot. _

_ He’d raised his rifle as sweat dripped in his eyes and down his back. It was all he could do to keep the rifle steady.  _ Let them shoot me,  _ he’d thought.  _ I’ll not be a slave.

_ But they didn’t shoot. _

_ “Come, Andal,” one of the men had said. He was copper skinned, clearly Dothraki, with a youthful face and a short braid. _

_ Jorah had called back in his broken Dothraki. “I was with a trading convoy belonging to Alios Qhaedar. We were promised safe passage by Khal…” He could not remember which khal had made a promise for this journey, nor had he known who these men fought for. “I’ll not be a slave,” he’d finished. _

_ The other man, older and scarred, had given a bark of a laugh. “That isn’t for you to decide.” _

_ “I am a soldier,” he’d done his best to say. “I can fight for you, or you can kill me, but I’ll not be a slave.”  _

_ “Where is your pass?” the older of the two had said.  _

_ “The captain of my convoy had it, but he was killed when we were attacked at a way station.”  _

_ “Kill him with your arakh, Rakharo,” the older one had spat in the harsh tongue of the Dothraki. “This one’s not worth a bullet.” _

_ Jorah had raised his rifle again. He had three bullets. Perhaps he’d take out these two and then save the last for himself. _

_ “The khal should decide,” the rider named Rakharo had said. “If he was promised safe passage, it should be honored. Besides, have you ever met a Westerosi who speaks our tongue? Khal Drogo might be amused by it. Hand over your weapons, Andal, and come with us.” _

_ Jorah had hesitated. Khal Drogo had a sinister reputation. “I’ll not be a slave,” he’d repeated again. _

_ “The khal will decide, but I will speak on your behalf,” the young man had insisted. “He’ll know the name Alios Qhaedar if it was he who granted safe passage. And we’ll tell him how hard you were to track. Qotho bet we’d catch you in half a day.” _

_ So Jorah had capitulated. _

_ Disarmed, he’d been made to walk for hours until they’d reached a collection of pickup trucks. Jorah had sat between two other men, though his hands had not been bound. When they at last reached a large camp, Jorah had been guided along at gunpoint and then shoved before a giant of a man with a long braid and a mustache. He’d remembered what he’d heard of the Dothraki, that they respected strength above all. He’d stood as tall as he could as Rakharo explained his presence. The khal did not acknowledge if he knew the name Alios Qhaedar or not though he’d grumbled about the destroyed way station. Instead, he’d said, “Your convoy is gone. Nothing I do will bring them back. I allow no freeloaders in my company. So what can you do for me, Andal? Why should I not sell you or kill you?”  _

_ Despite his parched throat, he’d said in his strongest voice, “I am a soldier, great khal. I have fought in many wars, and I wish to fight for you.” _

_ The khal had laughed, and he’d thought he’d be dismissed, but then the man had asked him where he’d fought, so he’d told him.  _

_ “Where did you learn Dothraki,” the khal had asked, suddenly intrigued. _

_ “Here and there.” _

_ “Very well, I will make you a deal, Andal. If you can beat one of my warriors in a fistfight, you can join my company. Otherwise, perhaps you’ll feed the dogs before the day is done.”  _

_ So Jorah, weak from lack of food and water and exhausted from the past few days, had faced off against a warrior at least ten years his junior, in the peak of health. He’d taken his share of blows early, quickly discovering that there were no rules, but then he’d fought dirty as well, and punching and kicking and clawing and biting, he’d beaten the other man into unconsciousness and thus found himself as a bodyguard for the notorious warlord, Khal Drogo. _


	48. Chapter 28 - Jorah - February 1304 AC

**Chapter 28 - Jorah - February 1304 AC**

Jorah sat at a corner booth, his head down, trying to ignore the music and laughter around him as he worked on his pint. He wasn’t here for company, he told himself, he simply didn’t want to be completely alone. Even here, surrounded by relative cheer, he could barely keep his dark thoughts at bay. When he was alone, it became impossible. Besides, it was a good place to hear news, and he wanted to try to confirm the latest rumors he’d heard. It’d been in a similar place that he’d heard the news that had brought him here- back in the North for the first time in over a decade, though he was still nearly a thousand miles from home. 

He tried to ignore the scantily clad girls most of all, for they were nothing but a distraction to his solitary drinking and eavesdropping, but his eyes betrayed him even as he heard the ghost of his Queen’s voice scolding him with scorn-  _ You are too familiar, Ser... I do not desire you, Jorah Mormont... Don’t ever presume to touch me again.  _ It was futile to try to shut out Daenerys’ voice, but even so, he felt desire roar within him. He could be as familiar as he pleased with these girls, and presume to touch them all he’d like for the right price. If they were any good at their jobs, they’d even pretend to desire him back. 

He’d spent the months since his banishment as little more than a nomad, constantly on the move for fear of capture and execution nearly anywhere he went- Lannisters, Starks, Targaryens, all would kill him if he was discovered in their territory. He should have made a greater effort to find a passage to Essos from a port in the Vale, but the Narrow Sea had become a battleground as well, and he didn’t much like the idea of drowning. Besides, though he supposed he must return to Essos eventually when Daenerys won the war- and she would win the war, of that he was certain- he had no life there either, so he dallied in Westeros. 

He’d left Harrenhal all those months ago in a heartbroken daze and headed east simply because that was the direction the road took him. He’d ended up in the wilderness of the mountains of the Vale for that was as good a place as any he supposed. He survived by trapping small game and fishing in the streams. It was a shame Selmy hadn’t spared him even an old bolt action rifle. It would have made hunting easier. It also would have made it easier to fight off the wild men of the mountain clans that he’d occasionally encountered. He’d done so successfully but just barely. Otherwise, he avoided other people as much as possible, his ghosts his sole company, and reliving his many regrets his main pastime. 

All of his ghosts went with him, though it was Daenerys’ that now dominated his every waking thought as well as his dreams.

_ You never should have agreed to Varys’ plot _ , he’d think at one moment.  _ But then they’d have gotten another, and she’d be dead _ , he’d try to convince himself the next.  _ You should have stood up to Varys once you knew what they were about… but then you’d be dead in Meereen and not there to protect her in Blackhaven _ . He was certain of very little, but he did know that he was not the only spy and someone else would have shared the same information in the end. Even Doreah, another member of her inner circle, had proven a traitor. It didn’t matter though.  _ You should have told her the truth, all of it, much sooner no matter the consequence. You owed her that much. And failing that, you shouldn’t have argued. You should have thrown yourself at her feet and begged for forgiveness, you damned prideful fool.  _

The pain was so sharp, so constant, so utterly overwhelming that he couldn’t help but be reminded of his early days in Volantis after Lynesse had cast him aside.  _ Daenerys is not Lynesse _ , he’d remind himself. Her memory deserved far better than to be compared to his unfaithful ex-wife. But that was the crux of the problem. Daenerys  _ was  _ infinitely better than Lynesse. For the first time in years, he’d had a sense of purpose and hope. For the first time since Lynesse had turned her back on him in Lys, his rusty, scarred, irreparably damaged heart and soul had loved again. She’d never loved him back, but she _ had _ cherished him, trusted him, and respected him. And he’d lost it. It was a wonder that his heart still beat at all. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He’d stop in small villages from time to time to buy or barter what supplies he needed, and it was in such a village, just a few weeks into his banishment, that he’d let his eyes fall on a bottle of whiskey. 

_ You must be better than before, for her _ , he tried to convince himself that evening as he sat by his campfire staring at the unopened bottle. But it was all a lie. He’d lied to her, made her think he was someone he wasn’t, made her believe that he was honorable and kind and chivalrous when he was none of those things. 

So for the first time since he’d nearly put a bullet in his head that night in Volantis all those years before, he’d drunk until he passed out and this became a habit in the coming months. He might have revisited the bullet in the head, but he reminded himself that she’d spared him for some reason. She hadn’t given him permission to die. Instead, she’d cursed him to a worse fate- a life that did not include her. 

He’d spent the rest of the summer in that way, trapping or fishing by day, drinking by night, and generally avoiding human contact as much as possible to better ruminate over his losses and to weigh delusional plans for winning back Daenerys’ favor. But after too many close encounters with mountain clans, down to his last few bullets, and with summer turning to fall, he’d returned to civilization. 

It was early December, as he’d nursed a beer in the city of Coldwater Burn in the Fingers, when he’d heard the news that had set his newest course of action.

“Did you hear old Stark is dead?” announced a man to no one in particular. “The Dragon Queen killed him.”

“Nah, it wasn’t her,” said another man. “It was one of his own bannermen, stabbed him in the heart as they approached the Twins, and then the Dragon Queen killed everyone that was left.”

It was nonsense, he’d decided, and he’d refused to believe any of it. But over the next few days, even in a new village, he’d heard snippets of the same thing- Ned Stark was dead. And the Twins had been bombed by Targaryen forces shortly thereafter, with thousands of civilians killed to hear it told. The Dragon Queen was not popular in the Fingers, and he’d found himself angrily defending Daenerys’ honor on more than one occasion when outlandish accusations were made against her.

“What’s it to ya?” a man who claimed Daenerys bathed in the blood of her enemies had asked, and Jorah had done his best to bite his tongue remembering that he was supposed to be nobody in particular, though the man looked him over more carefully and decided to drop the argument. 

He did a haphazard job of disguising himself. He’d taken to wearing his ring on a chain around his neck to hide his noble birth, but though he rarely spoke, when he did, he did nothing to alter his speech which marked him as high born or at least highly educated. And he was well armed with a handgun, body armor, and a well made sword hung on a scabbard of finely crafted leather and decorated with a peacock feather. He surmised that most men were confused as to what to make of him. In any event, they usually backed down on their demeaning comments about the Queen due to his arms and his size. 

Absurd rumors aside, he’d eventually pieced together the fact that Ned Stark was definitely dead, and Roose Bolton, the probable murderer, was now allied with the Lannisters and declared their Warden of the North though numerous Northern Houses opposed him. He’d also come to believe that the remaining Stark children were either missing or killed, that Theon Greyjoy had somehow been involved in the treachery, and that the North was now generally at war with itself. 

There also seemed to be some truth to the fact that Daenerys and her air force had bombed the Twins and that the rest of her army was marching there soon to finish it off, though he refused to believe the reports of fleeing civilians being strafed by machine gun fire.

Perhaps Ned Stark’s death should have evoked some sort of feeling, but he found himself oddly emotionless at the news. He was neither glad nor sad to know that the man who’d wanted his head and thus sent him into his first exile, and who’d shared the poisonous news of Jorah’s own past with Selmy, thus sending him into his third exile, had met an untimely and violent death. Perhaps, his heart simply didn’t have room for any emotion for his former liege with his continual pining for Daenerys, and now the added worry of wondering how House Mormont fared in the newest fighting. 

But as the North descended into chaos, the Eyrie finally ceased to hold out as a neutral party. When Arryn troops had gotten too close, conscripting men and boys into their ranks, Jorah had risked buying passage on a fisherman’s boat to make the rough winter crossing from the Fingers across the Bite to return to the North for the first time since he’d fled Westeros, hoping he would not be recognized amongst the chaos of war. He would bide his time there on the southeast corner near White Harbor, still far from Bear Island, but closer than he’d been in over a decade.

The fisherman let him and his horse off near Ramsgate, and he was immediately hit by the bite of a Northern winter. Ramsgate, nearly a thousand miles southeast of Bear Island, had a climate that was practically temperate compared to the land where he’d grown up, but he’d become unaccustomed to the cold over the years. He would need to find someplace to stay.

As he’d traveled through the city and then into the small farming hamlets nearby where it would be easier to stay unrecognized, he immediately noted the dearth of young men. Aside from some Gold Cloaks and a small detachment of soldiers sworn to House Manderly, the rest seemed to have marched off to war, leaving behind women and children, old men, cripples, deserters, and criminals. These roving bands of deserters and criminals were a true threat, swooping in on a shop or a tavern or a home to rob and rape and then disappear into the countryside again, and there Jorah saw an opening, for clearly men with guns or with training with a sword were in high demand. 

After a few days of listening in various pubs, he’d gone to a farmhouse near the edge of one of the hamlets. He’d learned that a woman lived there with two teenage daughters. She had sons too, and a husband, but they’d all gone off to the Twins with Ned Stark and not been heard from since, and she’d had trouble with some deserters already. Jorah’s presence would offer protection if she’d let him in the door. 

She’d opened the door with an ax in one hand though after looking him over with suspicious and fearful eyes, she’d seemed to decide it would be futile to try to use it.

“I mean you no harm,” Jorah had said as politely as he could. “I was told that you might have an extra room. I can only pay a little right now, but I intend to find work and can help around the farm.”

She’d allowed him inside, though Jorah suspected that she thought she had no choice. He didn’t miss the fact that her daughters had scurried out of sight. 

“If you have need of anything else, please come to me,” she’d said to him when she’d brought him supper, a simple but filling fare. “I’ll not fight you. Please just leave my daughters alone. They’re good girls.” Her voice quavered when she spoke. It sickened Jorah to see what the war had done to the defenseless.

“This meal more than suffices,” he said. “And you needn’t hide your daughters. I’m no rapist.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she said with a hint of fire in her voice.

“Are the Gold Cloaks and Manderley’s men of no help?”

“The Gold Cloaks are nearly as bad as the outlaws, the good ones all went off to war. And Manderly doesn’t care about our little town. He’s too busy keeping White Harbor from chaos.”

“Well then, know that I’ll defend you with my life as long as I’m under your roof.”

“You’re a deserter but you expect me to believe you are a true knight?” Her mouth opened in shock for a moment as if she hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud.

Jorah sighed. “I’m simply a man in need of a bed and willing to offer my services to one who will provide it.”

It took her several days to truly trust him, but he’d hidden his drunkenness and treated her and her daughters like proper Ladies, and then he’d chased off three armed men who tried to barge in one night, killing one in the process. “I’ll take care of the body,” he said. “No need to get the Gold Cloaks involved.”

He was surprised when she spat on the body and nodded. 

After that, she seemed to view him as a savior which caused him no shortage of discomfort. She fussed and worried over him and tried to feed him far more than his fair share of the food. “Surely a good man like yourself must have a wife,” she pried one day. “Where are you from?” 

“Did you lose her to the war, Ser?” she asked another time, using a title that he’d never told her was truly his. “You look to carry a heavy burden.”

“Thank the Gods for sending you here! My daughters can sleep again without fear,” she gushed.

If she’d known how drunk he was most nights as he nursed himself into unconsciousness in the small room where her sons had once slept, she might have felt differently about his future uses as a defender. And if she knew any of his past... 

In the war economy, pubs and taverns were one of the few profitable industries, and though he found a security job at a store in the mornings, he spent most of his evenings in such places, trying to avoid the woman and her praise and prying questions, spending what little money he had before returning to the farmhouse with a bottle beneath his coat. It was the only way he could sleep, though his dreams continued to make true rest allusive. 

His old dreams continued to haunt him, but his Queen now did as well. He dreamt of Daenerys, burning instead of walking out of the fire in Blackhaven, Daenerys murdered by a faceless assassin, Daenerys murdered by his own hand. He dreamt of his banishment over and over and over, only his mouth was frozen and he could not speak a word in his defense… not that he had a defense.

Most of the pubs had begun to double as brothels, also perhaps as a result of the war economy, for there were countless men far from home and countless women desperate for income. He wasn’t sure why he chose to spend his time in such a place. He thought he may have done it to torture himself, reminding himself that it was his inability to resist a woman that had destroyed his life and created such misery for himself and for plenty of others, and to test himself knowing that he would fail again eventually. While he had thus far resisted touching any of these girls, he felt his resolve faltering this evening.

_ Focus. You’re here to find out if it’s true what they said about Bolton _ , he reminded himself, for word at the store was that Roose Bolton was dead and his bastard son had taken charge. But as he worked on what was at least his fifth pint, his eyes stopped on a young whore with long, blonde hair and a lithe body whom he’d not seen before. 

_ What are you saving yourself for, old man?  _ a voice mocked in his mind. _ Do you think Daenerys will ever have you, you fool? Do you think Lynesse will take you back? Or Sarra? She never wanted you to begin with. You might as well have taken the Black if you wanted to be a celibate monk. It’s been over a decade since you’ve fucked anything but your hand.  _ He heard his father’s stern voice faintly, some talk of honor, but he’d had none for years, so he shut it out. 

Hating himself, he called over the manager. He pointed out the girl he wanted and handed over the money though he thought the price outrageous.

The girl approached with sashaying hips. She was young and pretty enough though there was an emptiness about her face. When she reached his booth, she flinched when he grabbed her hips more roughly than he intended as he pulled her onto his lap.  _ Such a charmer you are, you don’t even remember how to touch a woman properly _ , he scolded himself, feeling badly as he saw a hint of fright flash briefly across her face. 

The slip of a girl recovered quickly enough and said sweetly, “M’Lord, you are such a handsome man,” as she moved to straddle him and stroke his bearded cheek.  _ Daenerys touched my cheek like that once _ , he remembered suddenly.

“Don’t lie to me, girl,” he said gruffly. “I’m paying you to stroke my cock, not my ego.”  _ But that’s a lie too _ , his heart whispered. _ What’s a whore for besides making a man feel wanted? _

“As m’Lord wishes,” she said and began to wriggle about on his lap, rubbing her bottom against his groin. She reeked of cheap perfume. It was nothing like the more subtle scent that he remembered Daenerys wearing.

“I’m not a Lord either,” he slurred, finding himself suddenly wanting to be anyplace but where he was. He’d paid the money though, so he closed his eyes, and as he felt the girl run one hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and rub the other over his length, he tried to imagine he was somewhere more private with Daenerys sitting in his lap. For a few heartbeats, he tricked himself, and desire coursed through his veins, and his cock, again. Then his heart whispered,  _ You told her you would be true to her, and now you’d dishonor her so?  _

“Nevermind,” he murmured to the girl through a fog of desire though his hands did not stop fondling her and his pulse did not slow.

“Nevermind,” he said again, forcing his hand to move from her breast to gently grasp her wrist.

He opened his eyes with a sigh, and that’s when he saw him. He stood abruptly, his head spinning from the drink, and the girl nearly tumbled from his lap. He blinked a few times to make sure of what he was seeing. 

“Imp!” he snarled, as he reached for his holster and sword belt. 

“Are you ready to go to my room?” the oblivious girl asked.

“We’re done here,” he answered gruffly.

“Did I do something to displease you, m’Lord?” the girl asked in confusion.

“I said we’re done,” he told her, and as she began to protest, he growled, “Keep the bloody money.”

“Why, Mormont! It’s been so long, I barely recognized you,” Tyrion Lannister declared pleasantly as Jorah strode towards him. The dwarf had grown a beard and seemed to be missing part of his nose. “I certainly did not expect to meet you here, but I’m grateful for the escort. This whole journey has been a disaster. May I buy you a drink before we go? I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I think I’ve had enough. You’re coming with me,” he said leveling his gun at the dwarf as Tyrion’s eyes widened in surprise. “Now shut up and come quietly.”

To his relief, Tyrion complied, and he’d led him from the pub back to the farmhouse where he was staying and bound his hands with a length of rope.

“Ouch, I can’t feel my hands. Must you tie it so tightly? Mormont, there has been a misunderstanding…”

He ignored Tyrion’s panicked chatter as he packed. It took him minutes to throw his meager belongings into a bag. It took a little longer to part with his beloved horse, the one Daenerys had given him when they’d first met, but in the end, he gifted it to the woman who seemed more than a little alarmed by the presence of the bound dwarf.

“But must you go, Ser? You are welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” the woman asked as he shoved Tyrion out the door.

“This is goodbye, my Lady,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality. I wish you good fortune and hope your husband and boys come back to you.” He’d kept the only promise he’d made to her, he reminded himself. He owed her nothing more. He had to get back to Daenerys. 

“You’re rather drunk, Mormont, I don’t think you should be driving,” Tyrion protested after he threw him into the passenger seat of a truck that he’d found abandoned and taken for his own several weeks before. 

“Shut up, or I’ll gag you,” Jorah growled in response, and he started the truck and turned southwest.

The dwarf stayed quiet at first, but after a while, during which time Jorah struggled to keep his eyes on the road, for he was indeed rather drunk to be driving, he spoke up. “Ser Jorah, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. We are on the same side!”

Jorah let out a gruff laugh. “I should kill you for your treason, but I won’t deny the Queen the pleasure.” 

“But Daenerys told me to join her! I’ve been trying to reach her for months now. It isn’t my fault that I believed that she was dead. Everyone else did too. And then she kept changing her mind about where I was to meet her once I finally made contact.” 

_ A likely story _ , Jorah thought but didn’t bother to respond. The little Lannister had disrespected him from the moment they’d met, thinking himself so much smarter and superior to Jorah. Did he truly believe he could talk his way out of this? Daenerys would thank him for this and forgive him. She had to. If not… he refused to consider the alternative.

Suddenly, Tyrion’s face lit up as if he’d had a revelation. “You don’t know, do you? I wondered what you were doing in a whorehouse so far from her. I learned quite a lot about you from my Lord father before I killed him, and from Varys too. Beating your wife wasn’t enough, was it? Ser Jorah Mormont, slaver, and spy! She found out, didn’t she?”

Jorah’s arms tensed, and he gripped the steering wheel so tightly that it was a wonder it didn’t break, though the dwarf didn’t seem to notice as he continued, “Did she spare you with banishment, or did you run like a coward before she could kill you? You sold girls for gold, then you sold Daenerys for a pardon, and now you plan to sell me for her forgiveness. You don’t learn, do you? You think she’ll reward you for bringing me to her, but the reality is she’s likely to execute you for defying her and for treating me-” 

Jorah’s fist hit Tyrion’s jaw before he had time to think of what he was doing, and the dwarf’s head bounced against the passenger side window, briefly knocking him senseless. As he recovered, he spat blood and a tooth from his mouth. “Sorry to ruin your car, but it is your fault that I’m bleeding all-”

“Shut up!” Jorah roared. “Say another word, and you’ll have no teeth by the end of tonight.” There was no honor in hitting a dwarf, with bound hands at that, but he had hit a sore spot. 

This time, the dwarf stayed quiet. 

But the alcohol was affecting him, so a short time later, he pulled off the road, hogtied his captive before throwing him into the back seat, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

  
  


\---

“Do you even know where you’re going?” 

Tyrion’s question interrupted his nervous musings as he drove the next morning. In the light of day and with a sober but hungover mind, he’d begun to doubt his plan. Perhaps Tyrion really had been summoned by Daenerys, though it seemed unlikely. And even if she hadn’t, perhaps this gift would not be enough to earn forgiveness. And where was he going exactly? He couldn’t very easily just drive to the Twins with the war going on. There’d be roadblocks and soldiers and... 

“Of course,” he replied stubbornly.

Tyrion snorted. “So you plan to  _ drive _ from Ramsgate to Dragonstone?”

_ Dragonstone? Why on earth would she be at Dragonstone? _

He said nothing, but a short time later, he pulled over to look at a map. Perhaps he could find a ship from White Harbor to take them if she was truly there. He needed to figure out a plan. This was no time to be driving around aimlessly. 

A few miles later, it was a moot point when he hit a pothole hidden on the snow swept road and popped a tire.

“Get out,” he growled at Tyrion as he untied his feet but not his hands and hauled him up, giving him no choice in the matter. “Walk.”

“Seven hells, Mormont, now you plan to  _ walk _ to Dragonstone? After no food to break our fast? In this weather?”

“Shut up,” was the only response he gave.

  
  



	49. Chapter 29 - Tyrion - February 1304 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned a few chapters ago, this portion of the story is more book than show... so be warned, J-Bear is going to have a rough time.

**Chapter 29 - Tyrion - February 1304 AC**

“Need I put you on a leash for you to keep up?” Tyrion’s captor growled, grabbing him by his bound wrists and flinging him forward so hard that Tyrion fell to the ground before he was pulled up roughly and set back on his feet. He was shoved along again, albeit with slightly less force, before he’d even regained his balance.

They’d been trudging through snow covered fields and forests for a full day, and Tyrion’s legs were cramping painfully. Nevermind his stomach which was also cramping from lack of food. He was sure his hands would have been in pain too if he could feel them but between the cold and the tightly bound rope, they were numb. He couldn’t help but laugh at the sequence of events that had led him here.

After he’d killed his father, and Shae, though he did not want to think about Shae, Varys had smuggled him onto a small, single engine plane. After a terrifying, turbulence filled flight, the pilot had landed in an open field in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. It was cold, far colder than Tyrion was used to, so he assumed he was someplace in the North, but no one told him anything specific. From there, he’d been hustled to a waiting car, an old, decrepit vehicle that looked ready to fall apart and stowed in the trunk before being driven for what seemed like hours to a safehouse. The grim man who met him there told him to stay inside and away from the windows then promptly left, leaving him alone in the drafty flat with a mostly empty refrigerator and no word of what came next.

Varys had arrived several days later with the equipment needed to send an encrypted message to Targaryen forces, and then there’d been hours more in another trunk and another safehouse in another city. The plan was to make their way to Winterfell to Ned Stark and then to the Twins to rejoin Daenerys. Yet, he’d only just arrived at another unknown town, reunited with Varys again, when they received word that Daenerys was heading to Dragonstone, not the Twins. As Varys tried to rearrange things, Daenerys’ plans changed thrice more and Ned Stark was murdered, sending them into a holding pattern which stretched on for weeks as they moved from safehouse to safehouse.

Tyrion was certain that he was clinically depressed, or at least he would be if he lived in a country like Braavos where one could be diagnosed with such a thing. He would be an alcoholic if he lived there too, and he might be able to go to therapy or to a support group. He’d read extensively on the subject. 

But he did not live in such a country, so despairing, bored, out of wine, and hoping he could discover where whores go by speaking to some at a brothel, he’d snuck out of the safehouse where he’d been hidden for days. It was a terrible decision because though he had several cups of wine and a whore, he found no solace in either, and then he’d been captured by the ill-humored bear who was now threatening to put him on a leash.

“My apologies, Ser. I might be able to keep my balance better if you freed my hands but even then, some of us have short legs, and we weren’t all raised as bears in the woods.” 

He cringed when he saw Mormont clench his fists, but the big knight paused and then asked, “If I untie you, do you swear you will not run?”

_ As if there is anywhere to run... _

“On my honor as a Lannister,” Tyrion replied somberly, holding up his arms. 

“Lannisters have shit for honor,” Mormont growled, but he unbound his hands, and as they proceeded again, it was at a slightly slower pace.

Eventually, Tyrion spoke again. “You know Aerys planned to firebomb his own cities- Casterly Rock, Winterfell, and Storm’s End to name a few. I didn’t know about the conspiracy, but that’s why Jaime did it. Aerys was truly mad. As for Daenerys-”

“The Queen is nothing like her father,” Mormont interjected angrily. 

“I know that. So does Varys. Why do you think you got a call that day in Blackhaven?” 

Mormont squinted at him briefly. “Varys wanted her killed.” 

“No, he did not. That is why he sent you the warning. You were the idiot who didn’t follow instructions and messed everything up. If you ever meet again, perhaps he can make you understand. The Queen has invited him to join her as well.” In truth, Tyrion didn’t know exactly what message Varys had sent to Mormont that day, but he took his friend’s word for it. Varys had been adamant that he’d never wanted Daenerys harmed.

The knight’s face darkened with anger. “If I’d followed the spider’s instructions, she’d be dead. If I ever see him again, I’ll kill him. You both think you’re so clever and can talk your way out of anything, but she’s not some silly, little girl. She’ll see right through your schemes,” he growled.

“As she saw through yours?”

That earned him a curse and a hard shove forward. He supposed he was lucky not to have received worse. Tyrion knew he had hit a nerve, just as he’d hit a nerve when Mormont had knocked out his tooth the night before. 

His mouth still hurt, and his tongue went to the empty spot where he’d once had a tooth as he thought on the reaction. _ I daresay I hurt him more though. But why? _ Love, he realized suddenly. He’d misjudged him from the start. This brutish knight known throughout Westeros for beating his last wife, this fool who had ruined himself for her sake before she’d left him for another man was _ in love _ with the Dragon Queen. And Tyrion felt a small twinge of sympathy. 

\---

That night, the temperature dropped dangerously low, at least by Tyrion’s standards, and a storm howled. When they finished their sparse meal, which Tyrion noticed the knight split perfectly evenly despite their size difference, Mormont re-bound him and tethered him to a tree.

“Where is it that you think I’m going to go? Can you imagine a Southron dwarf wandering through some Northern woods at night _ in the middle of a bloody blizzard _?” Tyrion protested, but Mormont ignored him as he went about building up the fire and then making a small lean-to out of branches and a blanket.

Yet despite his continued hostility, the knight said, “I suggest you sleep next to me if you want to stay warm, but if you’d prefer keep your own company, so be it.” He threw Tyrion a blanket before crawling into the shelter and covering his own head with his arm. 

Tyrion held out for about five minutes contemplating escape or perhaps murder before the wind and snow had him too cold to stand it, and then he crawled as far into the lean-to as his tether would allow, his body shaking, his teeth chattering, gratefully soaking up the other man’s body heat. _ Now I know what it’s like to be spooned by a bear _, he thought as he slowly drifted off to sleep.

\--- 

The next day, the storm, which Mormont insisted was no storm at all, abated, but Tyrion’s legs were nearly numb from both pain and cold as they continued their very miserable nature walk.

“Perhaps you should give me a piggyback ride if you’re unhappy with my pace,” Tyrion said with forced cheer when Mormont began to grumble. “Or perhaps you could rethink your genius plan to hike through the North in the winter. I saw a farmhouse yesterday. We could turn around, go there, call a taxi...” 

Tyrion chattered on continually, taking pleasure in the fact that he was clearly annoying his captor. “You are an awful traveling companion, did you know that? And perhaps the least charming man I’ve ever met. A little song might help make our journey more pleasant, my friend, and you less brooding. Do you have a favorite?”

“You are not my traveling companion, you are my prisoner. Now shut up, we’re in the middle of a bloody war zone, and we don’t know who’s about,” Mormont growled. Tyrion had no clue where they were, but the knight seemed a bit jumpy.

“Very well, I’ll pick._ A bear there was, a bear, a bear, All black and brown and covered in hair!” _he sang at the top of his lungs. 

“Shut up!” Mormont hissed, crouching down suddenly. But it was too late. They’d been spotted and a dozen men armed with an assortment of clubs, knives, farming tools, and one ancient rifle quickly surrounded them.

“What are you doing in these parts?” asked one of the men. “Do you have IDs?”

“We’re just passing through. We mean no trouble,” Mormont replied carefully.

“Which House do you serve?” another asked. 

Ser Jorah hesitated, seemingly unsure of how to answer.

“They’re probably Southron spies,” said another of the men. “If you don’t have ID, you’ll be coming with us.”

Mormont initially raised his hands slowly away from his belt, but as the men closed in, he seemed to think better of it, pulled out his pistol, and placed a single well aimed shot before the gun clicked empty, and he unsheathed his sword.

_ A bluff _ , thought Tyrion nearly laughing lest he piss himself in fear, _ he only had one bullet _. 

Mormont struck down two more men before being disarmed, and then he fought with fists and boots and teeth. _ The fool _, thought Tyrion, who raised his own hands in surrender. 

Unarmed and badly outnumbered, his former captor was soon overwhelmed by clubs and kicks.

Several of the men might have killed him for killing their comrades, but a man who appeared to be their leader cried out, “I want them both alive. We don’t get paid for dead bodies.” So the men simply beat Mormont until he was nearly unconscious before securing his arms with rope. Tyrion did not resist and didn’t get a single blow until his mouth got in the way.

“Why thank you so much for freeing me from my captor-” he began before getting knocked to the ground by a punch.

“Look at his rings!” one of the men cried, prying his fingers apart. “And his watch!” 

“Give it here,” insisted their leader. “I like sapphires.”

“Rubies,” Tyrion corrected him politely. “Rubies are red. Sapphires are blue, and that’s an emerald there,” he said as they tore Mormont’s ring off the chain around his neck where he’d kept it tucked away. They took Mormont’s watch too though it was a cheap thing unlike Tyrion’s extravagant, diamond-studded timepiece.

“He’s a smart one,” another one of the men said. “But how’s he gonna bring us any money? What can a dwarf do?”

“I’m a world renown comedian. Yollo the Tall. Surely you’ve heard of me. I’d been on all the late night shows before the war started.” _ Commoners turned bandits, and dumb ones at that _, he thought looking over his captors, though bandits more often killed their victims. For some reason, this lot wanted them alive.

It all made sense soon enough as Tyrion was tossed into the back of a truck with a handful of other miserable people. Mormont, only barely conscious but still fighting, was shackled hand and foot, tossed in beside him, and chained to a hook in the bed of the truck. 

They traveled this way for several days, making slow progress due to the snow and mud. Tyrion did his best to keep up his cheerful act as he took in the passing military columns and fleeing civilians, some of whom his captors rounded up and added to their haul. The men seemed to find him amusing so they treated him well enough aside from an occasional slap or punch, but Mormont was too stubborn or too stupid to know when to give up the fight. He resisted at every turn and was beaten within an inch of his life. By the time they reached their destination, some nondescript little Northern town, his face was so swollen and bruised that he was unrecognizable. 

_ How far the North has fallen _ , Tyrion thought as he observed what appeared to be an auction block in front of several shacks that were being used as holding pens. _ Ned Stark must be rolling over in his grave… if he had a grave. _

They were questioned at first, and a small handful of fellow captives were released and sent on their way. The rest were kept, either because they were non-Northerners or because they were affiliated with the wrong Northern Lord or because they had no identification to prove anything one way or another. Tyrion’s accent gave him away as a despised Southron, but they bought the story about his identity as a comedian who’d been captured by Ser Jorah easily enough though they somehow missed the fact that Jorah might be anyone important. 

Then they were held in the pens for several days, Tyrion doing his best to keep the mood light and himself warm. He took in everything around him too, hoping for a chance to escape. Mormont continued to fight back until they chained him to the wall inside one of the shacks and left him there. Tyrion avoided him. It was Mormont’s own fault they were in this mess.

“So who’s in charge around here,” Tyrion asked one of their guards pleasantly. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve rarely been this far north, though I had a Northern wife once. She left me very suddenly before I was able to visit her home.”

“Aye, well King Ramsey’s changed things a bit, for the better of course. His Grace intends to return the North to its former glory, as it was before the Stark’s knelt to the damned Targaryens. He’s giving land to the people and allowing us chattel like you lot to work it, so that we can be freed up to defend ourselves. He’ll keep that dragon whore away and the damned Lannisters too. And the rest of those bloody Southrons. He says if any come here unwelcome, they can be sold as slaves.”

_ King Ramsey? Now there’s some news _ , thought Tyrion. _ The North is going through Kings nearly as quickly as King’s Landing these days _. 

“Oh, is the Dragon Queen going to be attacking soon?” Tyrion asked innocently. 

“That’s what King Ramsey says. She’s allied with one of those sand snakes from Dorne. What did you say his name was?” the guard asked his companion.

“I forget. Something with a Q or a Z.”

“Quentyn?” Tyrion suggested helpfully. He was surprised to hear of this alliance. The Martells were certainly not fond of the Lannisters but they had held out from aligning with Daenerys for years. _ Why now? _

“That’s it! The lil dwarf knows his snakes. He’s quite the learnt comedian. Perhaps some Lord’ll have you for his entertainment. You’ll do well, unlike your friend. He’s bound for the prizefighting ring or the quarries, but he’s dead either way. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to see a prizefight someday.” 

“My captor, not my friend,” Tyrion tried to remind them, but the man was too busy rattling on about the barefisted boxing matches which Ramsey was said to favor in which a winner was declared only when the other contestant was pummeled to death.

_ This Ramsey sounds like he’d have gotten on well with Joff _, Tyrion thought.

On the day of the auction, Tyrion was given a freezing shower and then dressed in ill-fitting, brightly colored clown clothes. _ These idiots have clearly never seen a comedian before _, he thought as he was led towards the block. 

But before he reached it, a tall man in an officer's uniform covered in gleaming brass buttons and absurd epaulets confronted his captors. 

“This one will be coming with me. Lord Cerwyn will want him.” Despite the fancy dress, his accent hinted that he was lowborn. He had the coldest eyes Tyrion had ever seen.

“Then he can bid on him like everyone else,” said one of his guards.

Behind them, Tyrion saw that Ser Jorah had been dragged onto the block. They had stripped him down to his boxers, and three men held him in place as he shivered in the cold, but even in his beaten state, he looked dangerous. Shirtless with the dark coarse hair that covered his battered chest and arms on full display and with his face grotesquely swollen, he looked more beast than man. He glared vacantly over the heads of the people who made up the small crowd though Tyrion noted plenty of townspeople scurrying by trying to ignore or avoid the auction.

“Look at the muscles on this one. He’ll make you a fortune as a prizefighter. He can take a blow, and there’s plenty of piss left in him too,” cried the auctioneer, and to prove the point, one of the guards clubbed Ser Jorah, who seemed not to feel a thing. “Can I get an opening bid of 750?”

“Lord Cerwyn is your liege. He’ll have what he likes,” the officer snapped to Tyrion’s minders.

No one seemed to want Mormont. _ They beat him too much _, thought Tyrion as the auctioneer lowered the opening mark and finally got a taker at 400.

“But we caught ‘em, not you,” protested one of Tyrion’s captors.

“If you don’t want him for the ring, think of the stone he’ll be able to break for you in the quarries,” the auctioneer cried in a loud voice behind them, clearly not happy with the lack of bids.

The officer gave Tyrion’s captors a dangerous look. “Lord Cerwyn will want this one for the King. His Grace will thank you for your service and reward you, I am sure.”

“Is the King a fan of comedy then?” asked one of the captors. Tyrion stifled a laugh.

“Comedy? What? No, you idiot. Nevermind, just know that the King will want him. He’ll want his rings as well.”

“His rings?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, you cunt. I know he had some gold and jewels on him when you caught him.”

Grumbling, the man emptied his pockets and handed over both of Tyrion’s rings and his watch.

“Those are mine, but there’s one more,” said Tyrion as he started to lead him away.

“What’s that?” asked the officer sharply.

“They have another ring.”

Cursing under his breath, his original captor handed over Mormont’s ring as well.

“Where’d you get this?” the officer said when he saw the emerald and gold. “I know this sigil.”

The captors muttered to each other and played dumb, angry that they were being robbed of their prize and fearful of losing another.

“It came from him,” said Tyrion, motioning towards Mormont, who was now going for 600 to a man who’d been pointed out to him as one who collected prizefighters. 

_ Why are you doing this? _ Tyrion asked himself. _ He would have sold you for his own gain, let him go die in a boxing ring. _But he’d already opened his mouth. Maybe Mormont would be useful in an escape.

The officer looked at Mormont through narrowed eyes for a few moments before he smiled, though it was a cold smile. “Go buy him for me,” he said to the man who followed him. “And get me a girl too. One with nice tits. I’ve tired of the last one.”

“Here,” he said to the captors, tossing them Tyrion’s watch. “This is your payment for the dwarf.” 

He and Ser Jorah, who’d been redressed, were led down the street- or rather Tyrion was led and Ser Jorah was dragged- to a large garage where at last they were out of the wind. Once inside the structure, Tyrion was grateful for the relative warmth provided by the structure which was heated by a large space heater and a brazier, but his relief soon faded when he was fitted with an iron collar which was locked in place. The cold metal around his neck made him think of Shae, struggling, fighting, dying… _ Don’t think of that! _

Then the officer came in followed by several soldiers in mismatched uniforms.

“Do you remember me, Captain Mormont?” the officer said with a sinister laugh, ignoring Tyrion. “You left me behind for dead, but I made it to the Wall. Then I found myself having to serve your damned father. He’s dead now too. Did you know that? We killed him and his loyalists North of the Wall. Now that I’m free of the bloody Watch and soon to be a Lord myself. Lord Cerwyn says I may have Deepwood Motte when it’s all said and done. Wouldn’t that be something? I grew up in its slums, and I’m soon to be its Lord. Maybe I’ll ask for your old island too. I’ll make sure to rape your cousins before I kill them.”

Tyrion saw a tightness in Mormont’s arms, and he lunged at the officer, but he was restrained by chains and by two men and could not reach him..

“You’re not a captain anymore though,” the officer continued, slapping him across the face. “You’re property and not worthy of an old Northern name. Your new name is Bear. And the little dwarf, well he says he’s Yollo, so that’s his name for now. Both of you will call me Master Dirk.”

He turned to Tyrion. “But enough with the introductions. I want information that I can give to King Ramsey and Lord Cerwyn to win me my Lordship. So tell me, Yollo, what’s your nephew’s next move? If you cooperate, things will go well for you. If not...” 

Tyrion took one punch to the face before he panicked and blurted, “But how should I know, Master Dirk? As you may have been told, I was the bear’s prisoner when I was captured trying to escape my sister. He was taking me to the Dragon Queen, and she’ll most likely have me executed. I am most grateful that you’ve stopped him. My sister may hate me but Jaime will be most happy to hear that I’m safe.” He could not look at Mormont as he spoke. 

Dirk was thrown off by this for a moment, but then he turned to Mormont.

“Bear, where is the dragon whore? Don’t make me ask twice.”

Mormont only glared and barely reacted to Dirk’s punch to his swollen face. Dirk then nodded to several of his men. They ripped off the knight’s coat and shirt, and then tied his wrists to a beam in such as way that Mormont’s arms were spread wide over his head, his brawny back, already bruised and raw from numerous beatings, bared and defenseless as one of Dirk’s lackeys began to whip him. Mormont gave a grunt at the first blow, but otherwise, did not make a sound for ten, fifteen, twenty strokes, and the welts began to bleed. Dirk raised a hand, and the whipping stopped.

“Tell me, Bear, where is Daenerys?” 

_ Just tell him _, Tyrion thought. He’d never been particularly squeamish, but this was hard to watch. 

Just then, the door opened and a pudgy, graying, middle-aged man wearing true Lord’s attire walked in. “Where is the Lannister?” 

“Lord Cerwyn, I presume,” Tyrion said with a bow. He got a lash across his back for his cheek as a smile broke out on Cerwyn’s face.

“Ah, well done, Dirk! The King will be most pleased with this. Have you gotten any information from him?” Only then did he seem to notice Ser Jorah. “And who’s this brute?”

“The little Lannister, we’re calling him Yollo, was his captive when they were caught, m’Lord, on their way to the Dragon Queen. He hasn’t given anything useful yet, but we’ll get it out of him. You may know him. Here’s his ring,” Dirk said, tossing the gold and emerald ring.

Cerwyn gave Jorah a startled look. “_ Jorah Mormont _? Is that you?” He walked over and looked him over carefully and a small smile creased his face. “You’re looking a little less proud than last time I saw you and a little less a Lord. My, how the tide has turned!”

But he got too close which was a mistake because Mormont head-butted him, and Cerwyn stumbled back cursing, blood spurting from his nose as Dirk’s men clubbed Mormont in response.

“Gods dammit, you cunt! You are property, and you will obey your masters! You will apologize to me and tell me where your bitch Queen is. What do she and her snake of a husband have planned? Bloody Targaryens and bloody Martells, what sort of Northman sides with them? None! Only slaves!” 

_ Snake of a husband? I guess that explains the alliance. _ If he’d blinked, he might have missed it, but when Tyrion stole a glance at Mormont, it was like watching a fire go out before his eyes. Though his captors didn’t seem to notice it, _ this _news had certainly affected him. His eyes dimmed, the tightness in his arms dissipated, and he seemed to sag against his restraints. He said nothing.

“Keep going,” shouted Lord Cerwyn. “He’ll break.” 

So they whipped him again, on and on and on, until Tyrion lost track of the number and Ser Jorah’s back seemed nothing but blood and shredded flesh though he still didn’t make a sound. Tyrion looked away until he was ordered to watch, so then he found himself trying not to wince with each successive blow. The first man tired and handed the whip to another until he, too, seemed out of breath.

“I have an idea, m’Lord,” said Dirk, and Cerwyn quickly nodded. 

At Dirk’s command, the whipping stopped and the men loosened the rope restraints. Mormont collapsed to the ground and did not attempt to rise. 

“When you knew me before, I was a poor commoner, but King Ramsey and Lord Cerwyn have raised me up,” Dirk said, kicking the knight onto his side. “Now I have acres of land, and horses, cattle, and sheep to graze. I need a way to keep track of them, to ensure that others don’t take my property. I could collar them or tag them, but such things can be removed.” 

Tyrion watched as a man stuck an iron brand into the coals of the brazier.

“And since I’m to be a Lord now, I needed a sigil,” Dirk continued, motioning for the now glowing metal. “Men called me a demon before as you may recall. They meant it as an insult, but I thought it fitting. I understand they use tattoos on slaves in Essos, but that seems a waste of time and ink. As you may remember, we Northmen are much more about efficiency and practicality.”

Tyrion prayed that Mormont was unconscious from the whipping, but the knight stirred, clearly realizing what was happening. Still, he didn’t visibly fight back, not that he would have stood a chance if he had as four men pinned him to the ground, his shredded back pressed to the concrete. 

“Tell your masters what they want to know, and perhaps the collar will suffice for now,” Cerwyn interjected quickly. 

_ Just tell him _ , _ you fool, _ thought Tyrion. 

Mormont seemed to consider capitulating for a moment, but then his eyes went vacant again, and he remained silent. But when Dirk pressed the glowing metal to his right cheek, the large man who’d not made a sound through the brutal whipping let out a strangled roar, and then passed out. 

“I’ll leave this in your capable hands,” Cerwyn said to Dirk, suddenly looking bored with the whole thing. _ Or is that discomfort that I see? _Tyrion though.

“Break him. Get what information you can. I’ll let the King know of your good work. And hold onto the Lannister. I’ll be back in the morning to question him more thoroughly. I’ve heard he’s quite amusing though. Let him entertain you for his bread in the meantime.” 

\---

Tyrion was given a stale sandwich that evening and a bowl of thin soup, along with a lumpy mattress and a few blankets. He was left unbound though he heard a lock click on the door of the garage. The brazier had been extinguished, though the space heater was left on. 

Mormont had been questioned and beaten some more before being stripped to his boxers, re-shackled and chained to the wall about as far away from the space heater as possible. He was given no food and no blanket. 

Then they were left alone. Tyrion moved as close to the heater as he could, shivering in the chill. _ Maybe he’s dead _, Tyrion thought as he observed the knight, but then Mormont stirred. He let out a low moan and seemed to try to sit up slightly before giving up, and he moved his shackled hands to his cheek.

“Leave it,” Tyrion said. “Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse.”

Mormont, who’d apparently thought he was alone, froze.

“It’s just me, the harmless little dwarf. Do you need help?” Tyrion asked carefully as he came closer. The man had not been gentle as his captor, his tongue probing the gap in his teeth in memory, but he took no joy in his pain. 

“I think together, we can get you up,” he said as kindly as he could though he got no response. He was close enough that even in the darkness, he could see the angry red outline of the demon’s mask that had been burned into his flesh. “You can have some of my sandwich. The bread might be moldy, but it’s better than nothing. 

“I’m sorry about your father as well. I met him once. He seemed a good man, not the type I’d want to shoot in the gut. And that’s quite the news about the Queen. I suppose it’s a good enough match that comes with a strong ally,” he said reaching out.

Mormont kicked a shackled leg at him, causing Tyrion to stumble and fall. As he righted himself, he was reminded of a wounded animal, cornered and snapping at friend and foe alike. Not that Tyrion was a friend.

“Suit yourself, Ser Bear, I’ll leave you to your misery,” said Tyrion, though he placed half the sandwich and one of the blankets beside him before retreating back to his mattress to finish his own dinner. _ He’s such miserable company, it’s no wonder Daenerys wanted to be rid of him _, he thought, biting his tongue to keep from saying it aloud. He wouldn’t kick a man when he was down.

When he woke later that night, Mormont was curled under the thin blanket and the sandwich was gone.

\---

Over the next few months, Tyrion was set to work entertaining and serving Dirk and his cronies in the large manor house where the Demon stayed. His tasks were not hard. They were designed to humiliate, but he had enough experience with that from his father and Joffrey. He would bow and dance and play the fool if it meant he wasn’t physically harmed and had food in his belly… and relative freedom to move about the little town unmolested. So he pretended to throw himself into practicing comedy skits even as he secretly observed everyone and everything. 

Mormont was sometimes ordered to join in on the skits as well, to be the butt of the jokes during Tyrion’s slapstick routines. But though the large man hadn’t fought back against his captors or attempted to escape since that first day, he didn’t obey either. He was sullen and uncooperative, shuffling lethargically through his parts on the few instances when he’d gone along with Tyrion’s script at all. More often, he simply ignored their orders completely, muttering curses under his breath or not responding at all. Nor would he speak a single word when continually questioned about Daenerys, even as they’d moved to asking about harmless topics like her favorite food or the names of her close confidants. In fact, Tyrion didn’t think he’d heard him speak a single discernable word at all since that first night in the garage. 

This infuriated Dirk who kept him chained up to the wall of the garage most of the day and ordered him beaten every evening. The knight would silently absorb the blows of the clubs and whips and rubber hoses before being returned to his constraints.

Tyrion tried not to concern himself with Mormont. He had enough to worry about with his own survival, and frankly, Mormont’s stubbornness often ruined his skits which brought Dirk’s displeasure onto him as well. Still, he left him portions of his own food on a regular basis, for he was fed far better than the obstinate bear. Mormont would never accept it while Tyrion was watching, but it was always gone by the next morning.

Tyrion was fairly certain that most of Dirk’s men, whom he’d surmised were a collection of Night’s Watch mutineers and peasants turned soldiers, truly thought he was a Southron comedian and knew nothing of his own noble past. They were a collection of opportunists, simple-minded fools, and sadists, and Tyrion did his best to ingratiate himself with them in case it came in handy later. 

As for Dirk, he was as evil a man as he’d ever met, though Joffrey, and Ramsey, on the few occasions he’d made an appearance, were perhaps his equals. The entire village seemed to go about in fear of Dirk, and Tyrion pitied the poor girl who’d been purchased at the auction for him. He’d killed the last girl he’d had, if the rumors were true, and it seemed the same fate awaited this one, a pretty, young thing whom he beat and presumably raped regularly. The girl occasionally was made to take part in Tyrion’s skits, and it was all he could do to keep her from sobbing the entire time. 

“To the new North!” Dirk exclaimed as he took a drink from the glass that Tyrion had just filled one spring evening. “Look what my hard work and loyalty won me! If you serve me well, Yollo, I’ll reward you too. Perhaps you really will become a well known comedian!” 

_ Murdering and thievery is more like it _. He wondered who the home had belonged to before. He spent most of his day there, in relative comfort, and as time passed, he was allowed to wander wherever he pleased in the village.

At night, he was returned to the garage and the company of the battered bear who was chained to the wall. Dirk and his men seemed to think the whip and branding had broken the fight in him, never imagining that it was word of Daenerys’ marriage that had done it. 

_ He’s a shell of his former self _ , thought Tyrion bitterly one evening. _ He’s completely useless to me now. I should have let him go off to die in the ring. It might have been a kinder fate. _Still, he found himself trying to keep his former captor alive. 

“He’ll freeze to death if you leave him like that,” Tyrion said to one of Dirk’s overseers early on in their captivity.

“What’s it to ya, dwarf? I thought he was your captor.”

“He was. But Master Dirk and Lord Cerwyn want him alive.”

The man frowned and seemed to debate his words for a while, but in the end, he brought in another blanket and moved the space heater slightly closer to the poor brute.

“If he dies of starvation, Master Dirk won’t be happy,” he observed another time, and the guard relented and gave Mormont a bowl of some disgusting looking slop. Still, there was only so much he could do. He needed to look out for himself.

One April evening, Tyrion was brought to a guest chamber in Dirk’s stolen manor and presented to Lord Cerwyn, which was becoming a regular occurrence. Cerwyn had questioned him carefully on previous occasions and gotten nothing useful from him. Tyrion had fed him a combination of half-truths and lies that he’d seemed to believe. Lately, he still questioned him, but with no clear purpose. 

The chubby man sat by a roaring fire and invited him to sit down. 

“Would you like some wine, Lord Tyrion?”

“Why yes, thank you,” Tyrion said, reaching for the offered glass.

Cerwyn threw it in his face. “You forget yourself, dwarf. You are a slave. Now tell me, who do you really serve?”

_ I can play this game _, Tyrion thought. “Why I serve you, my Lord. You and Master Dirk.”

Cerwyn frowned. “Before. Who did you really serve? You killed your nephew and your father after saving King’s Landing for them. You were once advisor to the Dragon Queen. Then you came to the North, but why?”

“I served myself. And then I had to flee to save myself. The plane I was smuggled on brought me North without any say from me, and Mormont, I mean, Bear found me there. You know, he’s been gone from his Queen for quite some time at this point. I don’t think he knows anything useful anymore.”

“He’s always been too proud for his own good. I still don’t understand what he was doing with you… what he was doing back here. He knew he faced death if he returned.”

“Perhaps he figured it was safe once Stark was dead.”

Cerwyn sighed. “Perhaps that was a mistake, killing Stark.” He seemed a little drunk, or surely he wouldn’t have said such a thing. He agreed with everything Ramsey said when he was around. “Or once he was, it would have been wiser to stay allied with your sister. I fear Ramsey has made enemies of too many people. But enough of that. Do you play chess? I’m surrounded by uneducated scum around here. I need a mind that can match my own.”

So Tyrion spent the next hour playing chess, and in the end, Cerwyn gave him a small glass of wine. He was returned to the garage just in time to catch the tail end of Mormont’s latest beating. The only sound was that of clubs hitting battered flesh and the cursing of Dirk and his men at Mormont’s lack of response. Then he was thrown to the ground and chained to the wall by his shackled wrists, and the door was locked.

When he was sure they were gone, Tyrion picked up the food they’d left for him and carefully approached the shivering heap on the ground as he had numerous times over the previous months. He was careful to stay just out of reach in case Mormont decided to try to kick him again for he’d been met with nothing but silent hostility during his previous attempts at friendliness. 

“Will you please forget your pride for a moment and let me help you?” he asked.

Surprisingly, Mormont gave what might have been a grunt of consent, so Tyrion moved closer. “I’m going to help you sit up now, and then we shall eat,” he said, before trying to find the least raw portion of the battered body to push him into a sitting position. The knight clenched his jaw but made an effort to lift himself, and eventually, he was upright. Tyrion gently draped the blanket over his shoulder. Then Tyrion divided the food and held the bowl for Ser Jorah to drink his share of the soup, for he could not do it himself due to the shackles.

“Thank you,” Mormont said gruffly, begrudgingly even, when the food was gone, but it was a start. It proved he hadn’t gone completely mute.

“You’re welcome,” said Tyrion as cheerfully as he could as he tried to focus on the blue of the knight's blackened and bloodshot eyes and not the demon’s mask, though his gaze flitted to it unintentionally. “Perhaps you could just do what they want for a change. What harm is there in taking part in one of my little skits, or in telling them something about Daenerys? It’s not as if anything you say at this point can actually hurt her.”

When he got no answer, Tyrion got up and headed back to his mattress.

“Why are you helping me?” Mormont’s deep voice startled him from the darkness.

“Nobody deserves this,” he said cheerfully. “Not even a miserable bear like yourself. Besides, I’m sure it was only a misunderstanding that led you to kidnap me in the first place. As I said, we’re friends.”

He was met by silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe GRRM just did it because he likes to make terrible things happen to his characters, but I am holding out hope that Jorah's time as a slave, including the very visible physical marks of it, will somehow play some role in his redemption. Because let's face it, show!Jorah could have died in the fighting pits, but book!Jorah... that was just terrible.
> 
> And for those who forgot, Dirk is the corporal Jorah brought with him when he sold the poachers.
> 
> Lastly, I'm trying to read an actual published, on paper, non-Jorleesi fan fiction book for the first time in a while, so there might be a slight delay between now and my next chapter.


	50. Chapter 30 - Daenerys - April 1304 AC

**Chapter 30 - Daenerys - April 1304 AC**

Daenerys awoke with a start, her nightmare receding so quickly that she couldn’t remember most of the details within seconds. But she knew it was the same nightmare she’d been having for weeks- someone dear to her was in trouble. She was unintentionally burning him, bombing him, killing him… or was it a her? She could never remember by the time she awoke fully.

Quentyn snored loudly next to her. She could see a thin trail of drool running down his cheek in the dim light cast by the too bright digital clock. It was nearly 5 am. He’d be gone in a few hours, and she was glad of it.

Quentyn stirred in his sleep and moved an arm towards her, but she quickly rolled away, got out of the bed, and padded to the balcony. She’d dutifully shared a marriage bed with him at least once a week since they’d wed in February, but she’d not enjoyed it. 

As she looked out over the Narrow Sea, the gray of the coming dawn highlighting the dark outlines of her ships that guarded the entrance to the bay, her mind could not escape the dilemma she was in. Dragonstone had been taken easily enough in November, and after dallying another few months, she’d finally come home to the place where she’d been born, to the place where her mother had died, to the place where her ancestors had staged their conquest of Westeros. But she was the Last Dragon, and in agreeing to this marriage, she’d given up too much.

Her bear would be angry. She’d thought it when she’d agreed to the marriage, and again on her wedding day even as she’d reminded herself not to think of him. He’d be angry and sad.

Daario has been angry too, but in a pouting, selfish, childish way. She’d invited him into her bed one last time the night before the Dornish delegation was set to arrive, making it clear that it would be the last time but hoping to placate him. It had been to no avail. He’d laughed in Quentyn’s face when the Prince had arrived at Dragonstone, been terribly obnoxious throughout the wedding reception, had the nerve to flirt with her openly the very next day, and then left in a huff when she hadn’t reciprocated. He and his Second Sons now harassed Lannister troops at the edge of the Riverlands. He did a negligible job of keeping in communication. 

Neither Daario nor the ghost of her Bear were being fair though. Practical, stoic, cynical Ser Jorah was still a romantic, and a delusional one at that, when he’d told her she should marry for the heart. _ Because he wanted you for himself _. And Daario was acting like a spoiled child. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to marry Quentyn Martel, and she’d made that clear to Daario. She did it because she had a duty as the Queen. With Ned Stark dead, with the Eyrie now openly hostile after the disaster at the Twins, and with the Tyrells still firmly wedded to the Lannisters, she saw no way around it. 

Her wedding had been a grand affair befitting a Queen or at least a Princess. She’d worn a white dress of silk and Myrish lace as if she was some innocent maiden, complemented by a white gold tiara accented with rubies and diamond upon her head. The royal jewels that her mother had worn on her most unhappy wedding day were now in the hands of the Lannisters, but nonetheless, Missandei and Irri told her that she looked like a true Queen.

She’d walked herself down the aisle, despite Ser Barristan’s good-intentioned offer to escort her. She did not need someone to give her away. But she could not refuse the cloak. The Martells had insisted on that part of the ceremony, and so she, the Queen, the Protector of the Realm, had allowed herself to accept the protection of Quentyn of House Martell. She’d fixed a smile on her face and endured it, just as she’d endured the feast that followed, an extravagant reception which seemed wasteful with such shortages everywhere due to the war.

They’d arranged for photographers and videographers and journalists from friendly publications to document the occasion, and she had to admit afterward that if one did not know what was in her heart, if one did not know her true smile, they’d think she was a joyous, happy bride looking at the videos and pictures. She was learning to play her part well.

The minor Lords and Ladies declared to her were present as was a small number of Dornish nobles and a handful of commoners for symbolic purposes. Qarth and Meereen and several other nations sent representatives as well. The marriage was for political purposes after all, and so the wedding itself was a political affair.

She’d felt nearly sick with nerves on her wedding night after Irri had left her and had to remind herself that despite her white gown, she was _ not _ an innocent maiden, ignorant of men. Yet, she’d never been alone before with her new groom, not even for a moment, and that had been intentionally done. The fact was, she didn’t like him, not even a bit.

He wasn’t bad looking, she supposed, though he was not her type, and he had never done anything specifically _ terrible _ , but he had always been so presumptuous as if she was his by right because their fathers had agreed to it. And he seemed such a _ boy _ compared to Robb or Daario or any of the other men she’d fancied in her life. He’d been knighted on his seventeenth name day, just before the war began, but he had no actual combat experience at the time of their marriage, despite ample opportunity over the past years. He spoke of his future glory as Theon had back before the war, and Daenerys knew now that Theon had been a fool. 

To make matters worse, he treated Irri and Missandei like servants, which she supposed they technically were, but it irked her to no end how he alternated between ignoring their presence as if they were nothing more than furniture waiting for his bidding and ordering them about even after she’d told him they were his friends, even after she’d made Missandei an official advisor rather than a handmaiden, and declared that both would be made Ladies once the war was over. His disrespect for Grey was evident too, as if the idea of a Summer Islander being named a general was laughable.

Most of all, he bored her to death and made the hair stand up on the back of her neck all at once. On the dates they’d taken in King’s Landing, he’d spoken endlessly of himself and his father’s plans for him without ever expressing any interest in her. In fact, at times she felt he talked down to her, and he could be rather handsy and aggressive. That was why she’d always asked Ser Jorah to stay within sight before. Quentyn had seemed slightly intimidated by the surly knight and kept his hands mostly to himself if he thought Jorah was watching. 

On their wedding night though, there was no Ser Jorah, no Ser Barristan, no Grey. It was just her and the husband she did not want. Quentyn had been terribly drunk and nearly tripped and fell as he’d entered her chambers. “King Quentyn and Queen Daenerys,” he’d slurred with a smile. “This union was a long time coming, sweetling.” 

“You’re not the King, you’re the Prince Consort,” she reminded him rather crossly.

“Same thing. I’m your Lord husband,” he’d said flippantly, reaching for her and accidentally tearing her dress in the process. He’d muttered a courtly apology before continuing to try to disrobe her. “Shall we try for a son tonight? I’d like to name him Quentyn. King Quentyn, Second of His Name. Or I suppose we could name him for my father.” He’d lifted her, not waiting for an answer, and planted a sloppy kiss on her mouth before stumbling and nearly dropping her onto the bed.

From there, it had gotten no better. He’d taken his pleasure without a second’s thought for hers. She wondered if he even knew a woman might want to enjoy such an encounter. His drunkenness meant that he’d lasted no time at all which left her half relieved and half disappointed, and he’d almost instantly fallen asleep when he’d finished, not even completely rolling off of her. It was all rather ironic given Dorne’s reputation for lovers and passion, she’d thought as she squirmed to extract herself from beneath his smooth, snoring body. 

The next morning he’d been somewhat apologetic and far more elegant in his manner. He had been more courtly on future nights, and somewhat better in bed. Still, his personality did not grow on her, and she wondered if he had a thought at all that wasn’t his father’s. Clearly, his father wanted her with child as quickly as possible, for Quentyn continued to irk her with regular questioning about her moonsblood. She hadn’t the heart to tell him that there would be no sons, nor even a daughter. 

She’d belatedly discovered that perhaps he hadn’t truly wanted to marry her either. Quentyn had come to Dragonstone with a small entourage of sworn knights, squires, stewards, and other servants. Among those servants was a single female, a pretty, dark haired girl. Daenerys had thought nothing of it until Missandei and Irri had joined her for tea several weeks into her marriage. 

“Excuse me,” Daenerys had sputtered when Irri had muttered some comment about the girl being a whore.

“Surely you know, Khaleesi?” Irri asked in confusion.

“Know what?”

Irri and Missandei exchanged a glance. Finally, it was MIssandei who had the courage to speak. “Grey says that the guards have seen her leaving the Prince’s room late on many of the nights when he stays in his own quarters.”

“Well, perhaps she was seeing to some duty. What is it that she does anyhow?” asked Daenerys, in denial, wanting to believe that Quentyn wouldn’t have dared betray their marriage vows so blatantly.

“She has no particular tasks that we’ve seen, Daenerys,” said Missandei, speaking as a friend and not a servant, and Daenerys knew it must be true. 

When she’d confronted Quentyn about it, he’d given a very carefully worded denial. 

Trying to not come off as a desperate and hysterical woman, she’d then confronted Ser Gerris Drinkwater who headed the Prince’s guard. He was one of the Dornishmen whom she’d come to respect. “It is common in Dorne, encouraged even, for young noblemen to take a paramour. It isn’t meant to be an affront to their future Lady wives, but some men have a hard time giving them up after they are married,” the knight explained. “I’ll speak to him, Your Grace. He should not have dishonored his Queen in such a manner.”

She didn’t know if that meant Quentyn gave her up or was simply more discrete after that. She didn’t particularly care despite the slight. She only wished she’d never married him at all and left him to his dark haired paramour. 

At least the alliance had paid dividends so far from a military standpoint, though a dozen new problems had reared their heads in place of the lack of allies. And she was stuck with this husband. 

As she turned from the balcony, a weariness overcame her, but she did not want to rejoin her husband in bed. Besides, she had work to do, so she called for Irri to help her prepare for the day.

Irri took a few minutes longer than usual to arrive, and she blushed when Daenerys raised an eyebrow at her. 

“Forgive me for my delay, Your Grace,” Irri said with a slight curtsey.

“It’s alright. I’m glad at least one of us is happy and in love,” Daenerys replied, leaving her handmaiden blushing even redder.

\---

Several hours later, she saw Quentyn off on a small plane with all the fanfare due to the Prince Consort. He and many of his men, and the woman too she noticed, were bound to join up with a large Dornish force converging at Starfall with a plan to put pressure on the southern peninsula of the Reach. The Martells thought that Lord Hightower might break with his liege and declare for Daenerys with the right excuse, and from there, they could take the Redwyne Straits and the oil rigs they contained. 

Free of Quentyn at last, she let out a deep breath and headed to her small council meeting. She hoped that Ser Barristan had good news.

“Has there been word from Meereen?” she asked with no preamble. She’d agreed to terms with Hizdahr zo Loraq in exchange for oil. She’d sent men and precious resources to help him secure his oil fields at his request, yet time and again, he asked for more and more and more. Casualties continued to mount when she had few men to spare, and Loraq had delivered less than a quarter of the oil promised.

“There has been no change, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan told her somberly. “Our officers say the situation is turning into a quagmire and that they are being used by Loraq to do his dirty work. Loraq says he can only send a fraction of what was promised until he re-secures his western oil fields.”

“And I suppose he still thinks it should be Westerosi men who risk their lives for the oil fields, not his?”

Ser Barristan only nodded. She knew he had been opposed to the operation to begin with, though like a good knight, he held his tongue when things turned sour. _ Unlike Ser Jorah who would have told me just how wrong I was _, she couldn’t help but think before she banished him from her thoughts again.

“As soon as we secure Redwyne Straits and get the rigs up and running again, I want our men brought home. He clearly has no intention of keeping his side of the bargain. But what of Daario? Has he given a status update recently?” 

_ With Quentyn gone, perhaps I will recall Daario. _She’d meant to stay faithful to her vows, but that was before she knew her husband had broken his.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat. “At last report, he was in the vicinity of Duskendale, but he is still maintaining radio silence, my Queen.”

“You mean he is still ignoring me,” she replied bluntly to which Ser Barristan slightly bowed his head. “Well he is aware that Quentyn was leaving this morning. I’m sure he’ll show his face soon.”

“I will go find him,” interjected Rakharo after hearing Missandei’s translation. Both Missandei and Irri had learned a good deal of Dothraki in the last year, though their motivations were rather different. “Send me to him. I will teach him to obey his Khaleesi.”

Rakharo knew nothing of the politics of Westeros. He knew nothing of courtly manners. Yet, upon arriving at her court, he had given up his title, declared her Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and sworn himself to her as her bloodrider. He had also taken an immediate interest in Irri and a disliking to Daario Naharis. 

“We’ll give him another few days,” said Daenerys. “What else is there to report?”

“If the Northmen’s radio is to be believed, there was a significant battle at Winterfell,” said Ser Barristan. “Reports indicate that Jon Snow’s forces were victorious and drove Bolton from Winterfell.” 

Daenerys blinked. This news should make her happy. She had forgotten about the existence of Robb’s half-brother until several months ago when he had united a number of Northern houses against Ramsey Bolton. Robb had spoken glowingly of his half-brother on the few occasions when he’d discussed his family at all, and surely he would be more friendly to her than Bolton. But he was another competing monarch. A small, dark part of her hoped that both sides had suffered terrible casualties, which would make it easier for her to retake the North once she finished with the Lannisters. 

“But Ramsey has not surrendered?”

“No, Your Grace, Bolton still controls much of the east, but I would also note that it seems the Eyrie sent troops to assist Snow. Surely, it is only a matter of time before he is overwhelmed.”

“So one bastard will replace another as usurper of the North?” No one spoke. “Is there anything else to report?” 

“Not a report, Your Grace,” Lord Darry said tentatively, “But we know that the Lannister’s air power is increasing by the day. I wondered if you might consider changing your orders, given the extra training the pilots have completed, and-”

“No.” Darry and Ser Barristan exchanged a glance, and she felt her anger rising. “No, you’ve asked the same question every day for weeks now, and I will give the same answer. Your pilots will complete the entire training program. _ Then _ and only then will I reconsider. If you have nothing else, I will go prepare for my call with Qarth.”

When no one else spoke, she rose, her generals hurrying to their feet as well and bowing. She turned and swept from the room. The lightness she’d felt after Quentyn’s departure was gone.

\---

She would not repeat the disaster of the Twins even if it meant grounding her greatest advantage and giving the Lannisters time to catch up. 

After Ned Stark’s murder, she’d felt a small pang of guilt that she had not done more for Robb’s kin, though Daario had assuaged that guilt slightly when he’d offhandedly mentioned that if she’d been there, she likely would have been murdered as well.

Nonetheless, she thought vengeance appropriate so she’d sent the bulk of her air force with its freshly commissioned pilots, just graduated from their accelerated training, to soften the Twins defenses before her ground assault commenced. The planes did do significant damage to the remaining military might of the Freys, but one of her bombers had somehow mistaken the city’s largest sept for the power plant and blown the holy place, along with the civilians sheltered within, to smithereens. 

To make matters worse, several of her fighter pilots had strafed a road full of fleeing civilians with machine gun fire. They’d sworn there were enemy combatants firing at them mixed in with the stream of civilians fleeing the carnage, but if there were, they hadn’t been visible in the propaganda videos of dead women clutching their babies alongside the mangled corpses of dozens of other women, children, and old men. 

Lord Darry had blamed it on their inexperience, but the damage was done. As far as enemy propagandists were concerned, she was her father, killing innocents in her madness. The Eyrie had turned against her and insurgency in the Riverlands increased. The Lannister propaganda machine had a field day, and those in the North who despised the Boltons and might have favored her turned their backs. That was the last she’d heard from Tyrion Lannister as well. It had been months now, and still he’d not shown up at court after confirming receipt of the message that he should travel to Dragonstone. Maybe he was dead or captured. Maybe he had been a traitor all along. Or maybe he couldn’t stand to serve the Mad Queen. 

After the debacle at the Twins, she had grounded every plane except for those used exclusively for transport and surveillance and said none would fly missions again until they had completed the traditional, pre-war training course. Darry had pouted. Barristan had briefly and mildly voiced some objections. Daario had said they should have bombed more of the city. But she had stood firm, and she had called off the ground attack as well. She couldn’t hope to hold the city if the entire civilian population was hostile to her now. 

As she left the council room, she could nearly hear Ser Jorah commenting on her gentle heart and reminding her that innocents had been victims of every war in history.

_ Don’t think of him _, she scolded herself. He was a slaver, a traitor, a liar, he had played at being her friend for his own gain. He was gone, and she would never see him again, and it was good riddance. 

It had taken months for the sick feeling in her stomach to dissipate when, from habit, she’d turn to her right during council meetings and see someone besides Ser Jorah there. A lump had materialized in her throat for weeks when the Dothraki called her Khaleesi. Her stomach still roiled at the scent of strong coffee, for while she and most of her council drank tea, he preferred the stronger brew during their morning meetings. She’d felt white hot anger as well as suffocating sadness when Oberyn Martell had asked about Ser Jorah when he’d come for his nephew’s wedding. 

“Where is your bear knight?” he’d asked innocently. “He was a good soldier, and most devoted to you.”

“I do not wish to speak of him,” she had responded as politely as she could. “He was a traitor and is as good as dead to me.” Oberyn had raised an eyebrow at that but not pressed.

Despite what he had done, she had missed him, and she couldn’t help but wonder where he was and how he was and if he still thought of her, often and terribly at first, but less frequently and with a dull ache instead of a sharp pain as time went on. _ If I look back I am lost _, she’d remind herself. 

She thought of him rarely now for she had too many other things to occupy her mind. It had been nearly a year since she’d last seen him, she realized. _ I do not miss him _ , she thought, _ and I am doing just fine without him _. She almost believed it too.

The rest of the morning kept her too busy to dwell on bygones any longer though. She had a long conference call with diplomats from Qarth and another with several of her Lords and generals at Riverrun and Harrenhal. Then she had a mountain of intelligence briefings and other reports to work her way through.

She settled at her desk with a sigh, thanking Irri for the tea, and then opened the first folder. 

She wished she could fly today, but there wasn’t time, and besides, the weather was cloudy with a threat of storms. She’d promised Jorah, all those months ago, that she would not attempt to fly in bad weather, along with agreeing to several other security measures. She wasn’t sure why she stuck to that agreement since Jorah was gone. She wasn’t some little girl who needed to be looked after, and she had never discussed a similar arrangement with Ser Barristan. 

The others didn’t understand. They thought it an unnecessary risk and a foolish hobby, but she was free when she was in the air. The first time she’d taken the controls in her hand and flown on her own was the most exhilarating, liberating feeling she’d ever had in her life. It was like riding a horse with wings. She’d felt as if she’d been born to fly. But not today. Today, her duties kept her chained to a desk. 

She’d worked herself through several of the reports when there was a sharp rap at the door and Missandei and Ser Barristan entered. Both looked grave.

“What is it?” she asked with concern.

“The Prince’s flight never arrived in Starfall, Your Grace,” said Missandei.

“Naharis finally responded to our calls,” added Ser Barristan. “He said he saw a small plane shot down near Duskendale this morning. He saw several parachutes deploy, and there is no confirmation of which plane it was but...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I did Quentyn kinda dirty here. This version really isn't based much on canon. Hopefully, there are no major Quentyn fans who are now offended by this chapter, but I needed to make him a bit unlikeable here.


	51. Chapter 31 - Jorah - May 1304 AC

**Chapter 31 - Jorah - May 1304 AC**

Jorah was jolted from his sleep by the sound of a club striking against the metal bars of his cage. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light trying desperately to hold on to the quickly receding dream. 

She’d come to him. She’d kissed his ruined cheek and wept, and her tears had healed his bruised and torn flesh where they fell. It had seemed so real, and as he screwed his eyes shut, he could almost still see her, almost still hear her, almost still feel her gentle touch, but she was fading quickly. 

“Please, Daenerys,” he wanted to cry out. “Please don’t leave.”  _ Your Grace _ , he reminded himself quickly, as if the dream would care.

“Bear! Get up!” The banging on his cage was more insistent, and the pain returned. He opened his eyes, or at least the one that worked. His right eye was swollen shut. 

Garth, one of Dirk’s overseers, stood outside of the cage with Tyrion beside him. Garth was also a Night’s Watch mutineer, and he hit nearly as hard as Dirk, not that Jorah particularly cared. He had half a mind to ignore him and make them drag him out, but his legs were cramping and he needed to stretch. He needed to piss too, and he preferred doing that someplace besides his cage if he had a choice.

Still, he waited another few seconds before he moved. He’d discovered some time ago that if he lay on the least battered part of his body and held perfectly still, the pain was little more than a dull ache most of the time, though currently, it wasn’t working because his arm and back still throbbed. But once he moved… another bang on the bars, and he crawled out of the cage, feeling every cut and bruise and broken rib, and stood to his full height, squinting in the early summer sun. 

Once the weather had warmed enough not to kill a man, Dirk had moved Jorah from the garage, where he’d been kept chained to a bracket on the wall for the majority of each day, and had moved him into a small, outdoor cage with iron bars. Dirk said it was more fitting for a wild and disobedient bear. The cage was too small for Jorah’s large frame, making it impossible for him to stretch out, and it left him exposed to the elements- and worse, to the stares, taunts, and pokes of all who passed. Though even that was decidedly better than when they left him stretched at the whipping post for hours on end, even more exposed, and he’d wake to find his wrists and shoulders in agony from bearing the weight of his sagging body.

“You’re to help the dwarf carry these crates to the house,” Garth told him. “The idiot farmer brought them here instead of to the kitchen where they’re needed. And then you’ll entertain the guests.”

Jorah stared at Garth darkly, debating whether to obey. He didn’t much like walking through the little town in his current state, and hoisting heavy crates of produce onto his shoulders would hurt, especially given the current condition of his arm. And he certainly didn’t feel like entertaining anyone. Garth had his guard down, lulled into a false sense of security brought about by Jorah’s passiveness. He could probably kill him with his bear hands right now. Or he could take the club from him and split his head open. They’d kill him as punishment, but then at least it would be over. His traitor, starved stomach may have still accepted every scrap of food that was given to him, and he may have occasionally half-obeyed commands, but Jorah wanted to die.

Before he could make up his mind, Tyrion spoke up. “He’ll need something more to wear than that rag,” Tyrion said, looking with disgust at Jorah in his filthy, tattered boxers which had been his sole article of clothing since he’d been bought by Dirk. “If there are highborn Ladies at the house, they’ll be upset by the sight of him.” 

“He’s to play a bear. Bears don’t wear clothes,” answered Garth stubbornly.

“As you say. Come, Bear,” said Tyrion, and the dwarf turned and waddled away without waiting for a response.

\---

Jorah had not adapted well to captivity. He was still a prideful, stubborn fool that he resisted the forced humiliation and refused to answer their questions despite the consequences, but equally, he ignored them because a part of him had died that first day and he simply didn’t care what happened to him. His already broken heart and damaged soul had been ripped to shreds when he’d heard that Daenerys had wed Quentyn Martell. He’d always known deep down that she’d likely marry again, but  _ Quentyn? _ She’d despised the boy before. She never would have married him if she thought she had a choice. She must have felt so trapped and alone to have agreed to it. If he’d been there for her, if he’d not betrayed her and been sent away…  _ if, if, if _ … The pain in his heart was greater than any physical pain that they could inflict on him, and a dead man did not make a good slave. A dead man did not care about pain. He only waited for one final death that would truly end it all.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the pain. It was a constant, never ending part of his life now. But he didn’t care enough to avoid it, and he was too proud and stubborn to give them the satisfaction of so much as a whimper. This last act of defiance was all he had left as a man.  _ Here We Stand _ , he reminded himself when his resolve faltered.  _ Don’t cry, boy _ , his father who was dead had said. _ _

His father had also told him to get his head out of the clouds, but now, with no books and no liquor, that was his only escape. Occasionally, he even succeeded for a few seconds or even a few minutes, leaving his battered body and the present behind, and he’d not feel or hear a thing as his mind soared to times when he might have been happy. 

As he lay curled in his cage shivering at night, unable to stretch his limbs, he imagined himself a boy again, curled on his mother’s lap as she sat by the fire humming, and he was warm and safe in her arms for a brief moment. 

As he received his daily beating, and as the lash again tore apart his already raw back, he sometimes succeeded in imagining himself walking with Sarra through one of the meadows full of wildflowers high up in the hills of Bear Island. She wore a pretty sundress that he’d bought her, and she’d smile at him as he handed her a small bouquet. The simplest things had always pleased her. He wished he’d appreciated it at the time. 

He’d try to imagine he was a boy again, as he was chained upright so that they could spray him down with a hose leaving him drenched and shivering before dosing him with a disinfectant that stung so badly that it was all he could do not to scream, and that boy would run down the main path to the harbor with Dacey on a brilliant summer day, the sun shimmering off the bay as they raced to dive into the icy salt water that stung just slightly as it hit his skinned knees. 

But mostly, his mind clung to Daenerys and the happier times that they’d had when he’d been her lowly PSO and she a princess. He’d dance with her at her name day ball and ride with her through the Kingswood and eat with her in her apartments, she perhaps the only princess in history who insisted on serving her servants. He’d go to a time before when she’d smiled at him easily and turned to him for comfort and assurance- before she knew he had betrayed her, before she’d married Quentyn Martel.

Usually, though, he could not escape, and when he wasn’t being beaten or forced to take part in some humiliation, he sat curled in his cage with nothing to occupy his mind but his darkest and most painful regrets. There were times when he wondered if he had truly already died and if this was his eternal damnation.

He thought that perhaps this was exactly what he deserved, that this was just punishment for his crimes and his sins.  _ Womanizer. War criminal. Drunk. Wife beater. Oath breaker. Slaver. Liar. Betrayer,  _ he’d count off each time the lash or club hit him and he refused to cry out. He could nearly see his ghosts watching. He wondered if his suffering brought them any solace.

The dwarf, on the other hand, had done well enough in captivity. He played the fool exceedingly well and had no problem groveling, seemingly unaffected by the sting of humiliation. From time to time, his tongue would get him a lash or a punch, but as far as Jorah could tell in the brief instances when he deemed to pay attention at all, Tyrion was well fed, well clothed, well bathed, and sometimes even allowed to sleep in Dirk’s large manor house which Jorah had surmised had once belonged to House Hornwood. The Imp was friendly with the guards, he was friendly with the villagers, and he was friendly with Cerwyn who came and went every few weeks. It disgusted Jorah when he cared enough to think about it. 

And captivity had done nothing to stop his mouth. “You are truly miserable company, Mormont. A wall would be a better conversationalist, or an actual bear,” Tyrion would say to Jorah, who was the definition of a captive audience in his chains or cage as Tyrion proceeded to chatter away. Most of the time, he would have liked to have strangled the dwarf to shut him up so that he could wallow in despair in silence, though on occasion, he was almost grateful for the distraction Tyrion’s endless prattling gave him from his pain. 

The truth was, as much as Tyrion annoyed him, as much as his groveling disgusted him, and as much as he hated being in the other man’s debt, his misery would be much greater if not for dwarf. His captors fed him barely edible slop, the portions not enough to fill a man half his size. It was also Tyrion who slipped him extra food of far better quality than he was ever given. He’d even fed him by hand on a few occasions when they’d left him chained in such a position that he couldn’t reach his own mouth. 

“Thank you,” he’d said the first time the dwarf had fed him by hand, the hoarseness of his unused voice sounding strange to his ears. It must have been a month or more into their captivity, a month or more since he’d last spoken aloud. It was perhaps the first polite words he’d ever spoken to the dwarf.

“You’re welcome,” the Imp had said cheerfully, and though Jorah doubted the sincerity of his words and the offer of friendship that followed, he could not help but think differently about Tyrion Lannister after that. 

Nor did Tyrion have to speak so boldly to Dirk’s men and sometimes even to Dirk, risking an occasional punch to the face, to remind them that Lord Cerwyn would not be pleased if they killed Jorah without getting an answer when they left him for too long in the cold or took away his blanket or beat him more brutally than normal or left him upright, slumping against his restraints overnight. Without a doubt, Tyrion had kept him alive, though Jorah wondered if that was a blessing or a curse.

Still, he could not bring himself to listen to the dwarf’s strongly worded advice to just cooperate. He would not answer a single question about Daenerys out of principle, and while the things he was ordered to do were not hard and mostly designed to humiliate, he could not bring himself to act as Tyrion did. He was too stubborn to give in, and too indifferent to his continued existence to concern himself with the consequences. 

He’d only even attempted to go through the mummery a few times after Tyrion had nearly begged him to try. “You may enjoy getting beaten, Mormont, but I don’t. I need you to play your part or my show is no good. If not for me, then do it for her. The poor creature gets punished for your willfulness,” the dwarf had hissed before one show, referring to Dirk’s plaything who was forced into the role of the maiden fair. She was a pretty girl when Dirk left her face alone. 

_ The poor creature’s name is... _ he’d wanted to say before realizing that he didn’t know it. All he could see when he looked at her was the whore who’d hung herself in Volantis. He couldn’t remember that girl’s face, but nonetheless, he thought there was a resemblance. So out of guilt, he’d nodded. He would try, for her sake. But when the time came, he couldn’t bring himself to do more than shuffle listlessly through the paces that Tyrion had set out for him, and he’d been beaten all the same.

He would die before too long, he knew, for no man could take the beatings he received day in and day out for too long. And Ramsey Bolton’s return meant that the death might be sooner though even more painful. 

Bolton and a large number of soldiers had arrived in the little town several weeks ago and not left since. Men had streamed by, some with thousand yard stares and grievous wounds, some with cold eyes, some with anger or terror or humiliation on their faces. Jorah knew a defeated army when he saw one, and this made them dangerous. 

“They’ve retreated from Winterfell,” Tyrion had whispered to him.

“Keep your mouth shut then. They’ll be in no mood for japes,” Jorah had warned him gruffly.  _ They’re looking for blood. _

While some of the men had lightly abused the dwarf in their anger, and while they’d mocked and struck at Jorah in his cage, it was Ramsey Bolton who’d ultimately drawn blood.

He’d come to Jorah’s cage, a madness in his eyes as he ranted about traitors and bastards, a stolen wife, and something called “reak.” With a crowd assembled and with cameras rolling, Jorah had been dragged by a chain to the whipping post. 

Demanding to know something, anything, that he didn’t already know about Daenerys or about the Starks, Ramsey had flayed a thin strip of flesh from Jorah’s left forearm in response to his blank stare. When Jorah, who’d nearly bitten his tongue off stifling a scream, still refused to answer or to even acknowledge Bolton’s presence, he took another.

“We don’t want him to bleed to death, Your Grace,” Jorah heard Cerwyn interjected cautiously through the haze of pain. “Perhaps he didn’t know her as well as we think.”

“He was her bloody PSO for years! Of course he knows something! And if he knows nothing of the younger Starks, he knows Glover and Tallhart and his whore of an aunt. He could tell me something of them!”

_ So Maege still lives _ . It came as a relief.

“Perhaps give him a day to think on it?” Cerwyn asked timidly.

Ramsey’s spit sprayed Jorah’s face as he screamed, “Think on it then, you ugly bear. I swear to the Gods, I’ll castrate you and then flay you alive before I’m done!” Suddenly, he whirled on Tyrion. “And you too, dwarf. When I’m done with him, it’s your turn. You must know more than you let on.” 

He’d shoved Tyrion to the ground before taking a deep breath and smiling. “But Dirk, how about supper? I’m starving.” And with that, he’d strode away with the others hurrying after him.

The overseers seemed unsure of what to do with Jorah, so they’d left him tied to the post as the crowd dispersed. 

“Why didn’t you just tell him she prefers her tea with milk?” Tyrion said lightly, looking up at him.

_ I will not betray her again. Not for anything. _

“Kill me,” he whispered instead. “Please.”  _ If you are the friend you say you are, kill me. _

“How on earth am I, a weak, little dwarf, supposed to kill a bear of a man like you?”

“Poison me. Strangle me when they put me back in the cage. Do whatever you like. I’m sure you can figure out a way.”

Tyrion had snorted. “But imagine what they’d do to me if I did that,” he said before waddling away, leaving Jorah helplessly exposed with blood slowly dripping from his arm.

\---

In the days that immediately followed, Ramsey had taken a few more strips of flesh from the same arm and reiterated his threat to have him castrated and flayed alive as Jorah continued to remain silent.

Jorah had no doubt he would follow through on one or both of these threats in time, but for the past week, he’d been forgotten, save his regular daily beating, as Ramsey became distracted by amusing his troops by other means. Though Jorah did not see it himself, he could hear the roar of the crowd as other prisoners- slaves- were forced to fight to the death or were put in a pit to be set upon by wild animals or Ramsey’s hounds. 

But Jorah’s arm had not healed. 

As he carried four crates stacked one on top of another through the town, his head pounded, a different sort of ache racked his body to the bone, and he felt chills despite the relative warmth of the day. His arm and back throbbed.

He would die here soon, he knew, in the North, but further from home than he’d ever been. He would die here, a slave, forgotten and unforgiven by Daenerys, by Dacey, by Maege, by all the others he’d wronged. He would welcome death, when it finally, mercifully came, but it would not be without regrets.  _ Let me see her once more. Let me hear her speak forgiveness. Is that too much to ask before I die? _ he prayed to the Gods, knowing the answer.

“We’ll do the Bear and the Maiden Fair for the guests after I warm them up with some jokes,” Tyrion, carrying a single, small crate, said, interrupting his thoughts. “Several Lords and their Ladies have arrived in the past few days. I think they’re planning their next move. Please, please, for once, can you play your part? I imagine Dirk is anxious to impress.”

Jorah fixed him with a glare. 

“So you still have some fight in you?”

“Enough to break your neck,” he growled, unsure why he lashed out at his lone ally, though Tyrion’s carefree manner rankled him.

“Very good,” said Tyrion, his deformed face twisting into a smile as he set down his crate to adjust the metal collar around his neck. “Ah, and there’s Alyce and little Will. Come on.”

Jorah watched with confusion as Tyrion suddenly veered towards a cottage in the middle of the town, calling out a cheerful greeting to a woman who smiled in return. A boy peeked out from behind the woman’s leg.

“Good day to ya, Yollo. I’ve just had some of those biscuits you love come out the oven. Come in and let me get you one with my raspberry jam.”

Whistling, Tyrion had disappeared into the house after the woman without a second glance at Jorah. The boy gaped at him, and he couldn’t help but lower his eyes and stare at his feet. Some of the village boys mocked him in his cage, poking at him with sticks, pelting him with mud and stones, pissing on him as the guards laughed. He’d never looked at them. He wondered if this was one of the boys. 

“Why do you live in a cage?” the boy asked, edging closer. “Are you really a bear?” 

“Of course he’s not a bear, Will,” the woman’s voice startled Jorah. He hadn’t heard her come back outside. “He’s a man just like yer Da.” 

Jorah raised his head and met her pitying gaze as she held out a biscuit slathered in butter and jam.

_ It’s a trap _ , his mind warned as he glanced around, and he didn’t want her pity, but the scent of it made him feel faint with hunger and made his mouth water. He snatched it from her hand, cramming the entire thing into his mouth before anyone could stop him or take it away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tasted something so wonderful. It was…  _ heavenly.  _

Tyrion snorted beside him. “But I think he is a bear, my Lady. That is why he has no manners.”

Jorah reddened, but before he could speak his thanks, two soldiers approached, and the woman turned quickly and ushered her boy back inside. 

“Come on then, Bear,” said Tyrion loudly. “We’ve groceries to deliver.”

They dropped off the crates in the kitchen, and then Tyrion insisted they rehearse for the show.

After that brush with humanity, Jorah vowed to himself to do his best for the sake of the girl, who seemed as terrified of Jorah as of her cruel master. 

She had a split lip and a black eye when she joined them for the rehearsal, and she whimpered when he picked her up at the part where he was meant to capture her.  _ What have they told you about me, child?  _ he wanted to ask.  _ Is it my face that scares you, or can you see my soul? _

Despite his vow, the rehearsal, as always, was terrible because he simply could not dance as Tyrion wanted nor react convincingly to Tyrion’s mock blows. 

The show was even worse. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to see the audience that had come to mock, but he could sense that Tyrion was right that it was more crowded than normal as men roared with drunken laughter and women shrieked at the sight of him. A camera flashed and he could not go on, ignoring Tyrion’s mock punches and bringing on a shower of boos. Tyrion punched him hard in the groin bringing him to his knee to applause and whistles. He’d risen and walked off the stage, leaving Tyrion scrambling to ad lib.

Tyrion glared as came off the makeshift stage.

“What the fuck was that, Mormont?” Tyrion hissed. “I thought we had an agreement. I wouldn’t have gotten you a biscuit if I’d known you were going to still be a damned idiot.”

The girl began to sob. 

_ I’m sorry _ , he wanted to tell her.  _ I’m sorry I’m such a stubborn fool _ . 

One of Dirk’s overseers named Alyn shoved Jorah. “Back to your cage then, bear,” he growled. “You’ve made His Grace unhappy with your performance.”

“Just a moment, Alyn,” Tyrion interjected suddenly. “Lord Cerwyn said I’m to go back with you, but I have some duties in the kitchen first.”

Alyn frowned. “But I want to see the movie. It’s to start in a few minutes. Dirk said I can watch in the back as long as I don’t disturb none of the nobles.”

“Just secure him outside,” Tyrion said. “I’ll come get you when I’ve finished.” 

Alyn hesitated, confused. “But his shackles are back at the cage.”

“Then use a rope,” Tyrion suggested helpfully. “If you tie his hands tightly behind his back, he won’t be able to undo them, not that there’s anywhere for him to run. I can show you a few knots. Learning knots was a hobby of mine as a boy, oddly enough.”

“I know how to tie a bloody knot. I’m not stupid,” Alyn snapped, slapping Tyrion.

Still, Tyrion stood by as if supervising as Alyn shoved Jorah to his knees and then tied his hands tightly behind his back, securing the other end to a horse post.

“Good bear,” Tyrion said with a wink as he patted his head. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back soon.”

Then they both turned and went back into the house, leaving Jorah alone in the dark. 

His chills and aches had worsened as the day had gone on, and the pain in his left arm was becoming unbearable as the rope chaffed against the raw, exposed wounds. He’d had nothing to eat since the biscuit hours before, and his stomach cramped from hunger. He tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but the restraints made it impossible to lie down or sit comfortably, and he was too weary to stand. So Jorah squatted and rested his head on his knees, seeing nothing, waiting to be taken back to his cage, waiting for death. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the continual darkness, but I thought that Jorah's own POV of his captivity was a must... the next chapter is almost done... maybe it'll even be a 2 for 1 weekend.


	52. Chapter 32 - Tyrion - May 1304 AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it really is a 2 for 1 weekend! So for those of you who (like me) go straight to the last chapter of updated fics, you will want to go back one chapter before reading this one if you haven't gotten back into this story since the start of the weekend. This chapter picks up minutes after the last left off.

**Chapter 32 - Tyrion - May 1304 AC**

Tyrion glanced both ways before waddling quickly across the dark yard, sticking to the shadows as he made his way towards the squatting bear. He’d gone to the kitchen for just long enough to be seen and to grab a bite before slipping out a back door.

“Mormont,” he hissed, and the knight slowly lifted his head, the raised, pale outline of the demon’s mask watching him eerily. Mormont’s less swollen eye, the only one that Tyrion could see, looked feverish even in the dim light.  _ Perhaps I’ve waited too long to make a move _ , he thought, but truly this was the first good chance he’d had. “It’s time to go.”

Tyrion pulled a small penknife out of his boot. Contrary to what he’d told Dirk’s idiot overseer, he was terrible with knots and had no chance of untying this one. Ser Jorah watched him blankly as he began to saw his way through the rope that tightly bound the knight’s hands behind his back, doing his best to not touch his mangled left forearm

“Come on then,” he urged softly when he’d finally freed the big man. Ser Jorah rose slowly to his feet, rubbing his wrists gingerly.

“Where are we going?” he asked in his gruff tone.

“We have a meeting inside. Follow me.”

“I’d rather go back to my cage and get it over with so that I can sleep,” the knight said stubbornly. By  _ it,  _ Tyrion assumed he meant his nightly beating, and by  _ sleep _ , he assumed he meant lying very still with his eyes closed, for Tyrion seriously doubted that he slept much at all.

“I thought you said you had some fight left in you.”

“How long have you had that knife?” Mormont asked suddenly as if his mind was slowly catching up with what was happening.

“The whole time. People tend to underestimate dwarfs,” said Tyrion with a wry smile.

“The whole time? You’ve had it this whole fucking time and done nothing? You could have-” Ser Jorah whispered, confusion giving way to fury.

“Stabbed one guard in the leg and immediately been set upon by a dozen more? Though I suppose I could have slit your throat in your sleep the very night you captured me, and then I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t say I’ve done nothing, Ser Bear. I’d say I’ve kept you alive thus far,” Tyrion answered. This wasn’t the time to argue. “Now follow me if you want to see your Queen again.” 

And he waddled away without looking back, praying that his companion would follow. He smiled slightly when he heard heavy footsteps fall in just behind him.

“Oye, what do you think yer doing?” snarled Garth, who was patrolling the perimeter of the house.

“Master Dirk told me to bring the bear back. He needs to be punished for his terrible performance tonight. I think he might castrate him.” Garth delighted in inflicting pain on Ser Jorah, and he seemed to take it personally that he could never make the knight cry out when he beat him. 

Garth smiled widely at this, revealing a row of crooked, blackened teeth. “ _ That’ll _ make him scream. Do you think he’d let me watch?”

“No, no, only His Grace and the Lords will be allowed to witness it I’m afraid.”

Tyrion feared he had overplayed his hand when the knight slowed, and he half expected that he would stop following him altogether, which would complicate things. Mormont still had plenty of muscle on his large frame despite the months of near starvation. He could fight back if he wanted to. But after a moment's hesitation, he followed after Tyrion into the house. 

_ Does he trust me then, or is he even more dead inside than I thought? _

He would find out in a minute.

Tyrion led Ser Jorah up a set of stairs before rapping sharply three times on a door. He waited for a response before opening it and stepping inside.

“Lord Tyrion,” Cerwyn greeted him with a nod before a look of shock erased his smile. “What is  _ he  _ doing with you? That wasn’t the arrangement! You were supposed to come alone.”

Tyrion was about to give a clever retort, but then it was his turn to startle as he noticed another man in the room. He was older than Cerwyn by several decades with fat cheeks and as large a belly as Tyrion had ever seen beneath an impeccably tailored silk shirt and vest. 

“I’m sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your friend,” Tyrion said, deciding to ignore Cerwyn’s complaint. “Lord…?” He scanned his attire, looking for a hint. He’d always been terrible with the Northern Houses. None but the Starks had ever seemed important. 

“Lord Manderly,” the man replied as he took a large bite of hamburger. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Lord. I’ve just arrived this evening seeing as I’ve been… summoned. And who is this poor brute with you?”

“I knew Cerwyn was a cunt, but I thought better of you, Wyman,” Ser Jorah Mormont’s deep voice interjected before Tyrion could speak.

The fat man sputtered, nearly choking on his mouthful as he narrowed his eyes. “Do I know you?”

“It’s Mormont,” said Cerwyn wearily. “He isn’t supposed to be here right now.” 

“ _ Jorah _ Mormont?”

“Aye,” Ser Jorah answered.

“Seven hells, but how did he get here? What have you done to him?” Manderly sputtered, turning on Cerwyn. 

“It wasn’t my doing. I only had him flogged. The rest was that psychopath Dirk! And the bastard did his arm,” Cerwyn answered indignantly.

“You  _ only _ had me flogged?” Ser Jorah asked coldly. “You told him to break me. Maybe I should break you.” And he started to cross the room with balled fists, causing Cerwyn to trip and fall as he backed quickly away. Tyrion dashed between the two men before Ser Jorah could do any damage.

_ Free him from his bonds and he’s as surly and foolish as ever _ , thought Tyrion.

“There’s an entire army outside,” he reminded everyone calmly.

Cerwyn was less calm. “If you harm me, it will be the last thing you do,” he said hysterically. “Have you ever seen a man flayed alive? He’ll make it last for hours- for days!”

“I think I know a bit more about what it’s like to be flayed than you!”

“I’m sure Medger didn’t wish this on you, Jorah,” Manderly said in a grandfatherly way. “The Gods know I didn’t. You know I’ve never had much in terms of ground troops. I couldn’t stand up to the Dreadfort. I had to save my people. I sent my ships off and said they were sunk to keep them away from him, but I didn’t have a choice in the rest of this.”

“Of course you had a choice! You chose to-“ There was anger in Mormont’s voice, and fight, and Tyrion was glad to hear it, but this was not the time.

“My Lords! Ser Jorah!” he interrupted as loudly as he dared. “I’m sorry to break up this Northern reunion, but I believe time is of the essence. And it would help if everyone kept their voices down.”

He’d seen a hint that very first day when he’d sensed Cerwyn’s discomfort with the branding, and he’d confirmed it in the months since. Cerwyn hated Ser Jorah, but he was squeamish about what was being done to him. He avoided going anywhere near where Mormont was kept caged as if he hoped he would simply disappear, and he openly expressed disdain for both Dirk and Ramsey Bolton during drunken conversations over the chessboard. 

Medger Cerwyn was a weak man and a coward who associated with bullies to avoid being their target. But in this instance, he’d gotten in too deep.

He’d been scared after the defeat at Winterfell. He’d backed the wrong monster, and now that monster was in danger of losing. It was Tyrion who’d planted the idea in his mind. If he could help Tyrion escape, he’d be sure to put in a good word for him with Daenerys and with Jon Snow who both knew him well and valued his counsel. Nevermind that he’d only met Jon Snow once before and that he was uncertain of what sort of reception he’d get when he next saw Daenerys. Cerwyn didn’t know that. Cerwyn believed him.

He’d said nothing of Ser Jorah to Cerwyn, sensing that he’d meet resistance, but it would do no good for Tyrion to escape alone. Cerwyn had only mentioned getting him out of the town. Tyrion would need some muscle for the rest of the journey. And while their captors seemed oblivious, he hadn’t missed Ser Jorah’s feverish eyes, nor the darkening and swelling of his mangled arm and back. He wasn’t blind to the fact that the bear’s wounds had become infected and that the big man, without a maester’s intervention, was dying. It was now or never, he’d decided that day, especially since Ramsey seemed intent on turning on him once he was done with Ser Jorah. Tyrion had no intention of becoming a bloodhound's next meal. 

“Ser Jorah will need some clothes and some shoes for the journey,” he said in his most commanding voice. 

“He can’t go with you,” Cerwyn whined. “There isn’t room.”

“But he must!” Manderly exclaimed. “The Gods know Lord- er- I mean Ser Jorah has made terrible mistakes, but his father was a good man. I don’t want Jeor’s ghost after me for this!” 

Cerwyn hemmed and hawed for a moment before responding. “Fine, I’ll have a truck pulled around instead of a car. You can both hide in the bed.”

“And the clothes?” Tyrion pressed. 

Twenty minutes later, they were headed back down the stairs, ill-fitting clothes and boots in a sack for Mormont to put on once they were in the truck. For now, he was still a nearly naked slave. Anything else would draw suspicion. 

Tyrion had just reached the back door when Ser Jorah whispered, “Lannister, wait. What about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The maiden fair. I don’t know her name.”

Tyrion wondered briefly if Ser Jorah had lost his mind from too many kicks to the skull. “You cannot be serious, Mormont. The truck is waiting. We need to go. Now!”

“You can go if you must. I’m not leaving without her. Where does he keep her?”

“She’ll be guarded. You’ll be caught, and I’ll not be able to save you again.”

“I don’t care.”

_ The stubborn, noble fool... _

With a sigh, Tyrion directed him to the small attic room where she was kept when Dirk had no need of her. There was a guard in the hallway who straightened when he saw the pair approach.

“We’re to have an encore performance,” Tyrion said cheerfully. “We need the girl to play her part.”

If the guard believed him, he would let her out, and then they’d walk calmly back down the stairs. There was no need for anything dramatic, he’d told Ser Jorah.

And thankfully, after a few seconds of hesitation, the guard did believe him, and he turned to open the door. Before Tyrion knew what was happening, Ser Jorah stepped forward and snapped the man’s neck with one swift movement before taking his handgun from his holster. Tyrion shuddered. He’d forgotten how dangerous Ser Jorah was and how brutally, violently strong, even in his miserable state. He wondered, not for the first time, how he’d ever won Lynesse’s heart and what Daenerys ever saw in him aside from a very competent bodyguard. 

The girl, unsurprisingly, shrunk in terror and cried out before Mormont clapped his hand over her mouth. Ser Jorah had never been the one to fetch her, and no doubt, she thought he was the brute they’d made him out to be. The fact that he’d dragged a dead guard in behind him surely didn’t help matters. 

But then he spoke in a voice that despite its gruffness belayed a gentleness and kindness that Tyrion would never have imagined he possessed.

“I’m not going to hurt you, child,” he rasped softly as he slowly removed his hand from her mouth. “We’ve come to take you out of here.”

But she shook her head and tried to move further into the corner, tears in her eyes.

Ser Jorah squatted beside her. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Penny,” she whimpered in reply.

“And where are you from, Penny? Where is your family?”

“I’m from a farm near the Dreadfort,” she sobbed. “My father supported the Starks. I think they killed everyone but me. Please go. He’ll punish me if he finds out you were here.”

“He’ll never punish you again. We mean to take you to safety. And until then, I promise I’ll protect you with my life. I may look washed up, but I still have some fight in me. Just ask him,” Mormont said, motioning towards the dead guard.

This was taking much too long.

“Trust us. We have a perfect plan,” Tyrion added with a smile.  _ A perfectly fucked up plan. _

“No,” Mormont said, his voice grave. “We don’t have a perfect plan. The journey will be hard and dangerous. I cannot promise we’ll make it, but at least you’ll have a chance. And if it looks like we’re to be caught, just say the word, and I’ll ensure that you never return here.”

_ Seven help us, this is how he plans to convince her? By offering to kill her? _

But it must have worked because the girl stood and nodded.

They slipped out the back door just as Garth came around the corner.

“Ah, there you are. I was just wonderin’ what was taking so long. I didn’t think the bear’d be walking so soon again, thought we’d have to drag him all the way back through the village.” He laughed, pulling his club from his belt, slapping it against his hand as he approached slowly. He was oblivious to Mormont’s tightening grip around the handgun that he held hidden at his side and to the darkening of his face.

_ Don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him, don’t shoot him,  _ was all Tyrion could think as he tried to come up with some explanation for what they were doing.

“I’ll tell you what, Bear, since you’ve just been neutered, I’m feeling sympathetic,” Garth jeered as he zipped down his fly. “I’ll consider sparing you my club tonight if you’ll get down on your knees right now and suck my-”

Ser Jorah’s arm flashed through the air as he cracked the butt of the gun against Garth’s skull. The overseer fell to the ground stunned. Mormont brought the butt down again and again and again, the sound of crunching bone turning to a sickening, wet thud. He seemed intent on turning the head to a bloody pulp.

“He’s dead, Mormont!” Tyrion hissed, looking around nervously. “Let’s go!”

Mormont gave the head one more wack before straightening. Then he leaned down again and took off the dead man’s jacket, which was spattered with blood and what Tyrion assumed was brain matter, handing it to Penny who wore only a rumpled cocktail dress. 

“Here, lass, it gets chilly at night,” he explained in his gruff voice, backed by the knowledge of one who knew just how chilly the nights were. “A little blood never hurt anyone,” he added when the girl hesitated.

_ Perhaps it was a mistake to loosen the rabid bear…  _ Tyrion thought.  _ He may still turn on me. _

None of them looked back as they slipped into the bed of the thankfully still waiting truck, covering themselves with a tarp. 

\---

Two days later, the trio tramped through a forest, Penny in her torn and muddy cocktail dress and Mormont in a pair of Manderly’s giant sweatpants, the drawstring pulled tight, and a too short button-up shirt which had once belonged to Lord Cerwyen. 

_ At least I’m dressed normally _ , Tyrion thought before tugging at his metal collar. He and Mormont had each taken a shot at getting them off, but with no success thus far. 

Tyrion did think that his  _ legs _ would fall off at any moment, but he tried to hide his pain. Penny hadn’t complained a bit, and surely he was still better off than Ser Jorah.

Mormont seemed near collapse. His breathing was labored and he muttered incoherently under his breath as he limped along. When he’d removed his ill-fitting boots the previous night, his feet had been bloody and blistered. Blood soaked through the back of his shirt, and though he tried to hide it, Tyrion could see puss beginning to seep from the wounds on his arm. Despite the relative warmth of the day, he was shivering violently, and his unswollen eye was bloodshot and dull. 

Yet, he forged on, leading the way with their sack of supplies and the gun he’d taken from the guard he’d killed, and he’d crossed the rushing stream they’d encountered twice, to carry first Penny and then Tyrion above the current. He’d barely even winced when he’d hoisted Tyrion onto his raw shoulders.

“How far do you think we are from the White Knife?” Tyrion asked. Cerwyn and Manderly had sent them on their way to Winterfell. The truck had driven them at least an hour west before letting them out, at which point, Ser Jorah had turned them southwest. Tyrion wasn’t exactly sure where they’d been to begin with, but he was fairly certain that Winterfell was to the north.

“A hundred miles give or take a few,” Mormont grunted, turning to help Penny and then Tyrion over a fallen tree. 

“And once we cross, we turn north?” Tyrion pried.

“We’ll not be crossing. We’ll find a boat and take it south to the coast.” 

And there it was. They were not going to Winterfell.

“And who will be sailing this boat?”

“I will.” When Mormont saw Tyrion’s raised eyebrow, he growled, “I grew up on a bloody island. I know how to handle boats.”

“I was wondering how you intended to pay for it.”

The knight shrugged. “There’s a war on. Things get requisitioned during war. I hear Lannisters always pay their debts. They can charge it to your account.”

_ Lannisters do indeed, and I haven’t forgotten that I spent three months as a slave because of you, and that even now, you are undermining my careful planning. _

“Jon Snow will help us.”

“Jon Snow might help you. Either way, I like my head where it is.”

“I think we should rest.”

“No.”

“Mormont, you are no good to any of us dead. And poor Penny is not used to such excursion,” Tyrion added, hoping to appeal to Ser Jorah’s chivalry, assuming he had any at all.

The knight glanced at the girl before nodding grudgingly though he seemed as relieved as any of them as he sank down onto a log. 

So,” said Tyrion, who hated silence. “Am I your prisoner again?”

Mormont sighed. “No. If you want to go to Winterfell, we can go our separate ways once we reach the river. If you’d like to… be my traveling companion to Dragonstone, you are welcome.”

Tyrion grinned. He’d never thought he’d see the day when Mormont made a joke. But then he turned more somber. “And if she doesn’t want you back?”

Mormont shrugged again. “I have to at least try. I made a vow to her. I intend to keep it.”

_ How chivalrous of you. _

“Surely she released you from your vow when she banished you. She might take your head.”

Mormont did not reply.

“Are you still in much pain?” Tyrion ventured, since for once, the man did not seem completely hostile. He’d meant the question to be sympathetic, but he was answered with a snort of laughter and an incredulous look. Tyrion felt a fool as he took in Mormont’s grotesquely swollen, branded face, remembering the damage that was hidden by the ill-fitting clothes. 

“How long have you loved her?” he asked suddenly.

Ser Jorah clenched his jaw and looked away. He sighed again, rubbing his hand over his bearded chin, a pained expression on his face, but he did not answer.

“I loved a girl too, you know. That’s what I was doing when we met in that brothel. I was looking for her. Otherwise, I would never frequent a brothel.” He added the last part for Penny’s benefit. 

The girl was watching the two men carefully. Tyrion wondered if she would ever fully trust them, or any men for that matter. 

“D- Her Grace will find you a place in her household,” Ser Jorah told the girl gently. “And when the war is over, you can look for your family.”

Suddenly, the knight whirled around at the sound of leaves crunching in the distance.

“Get down,” he ordered.

Penny began to whimper.

Tyrion squinted ahead and saw soldiers, fanned out with rifles steady, approaching. They wore a distinct pattern of camouflage that Tyrion had seen before, and had a solid black unit patch on their shoulders.

“They’re Night’s Watch,” he hissed to Mormont. “They’ll help.”

“Dirk was a Black Brother,” Mormont argued.

“But these are actually wearing the proper uniform. They don’t look like deserters. And look,” he added, spotting the red star on the armbands of several of them. “There are some field maesters with them. They can look after your wounds.”

“Fuck,” muttered Mormont, apparently not hearing him, motioning Penny behind him as he raised his gun. “Fuck, they’ve seen us.”

One of the men called out, “Come out with your hands up. You’re vastly outnumbered. Yield, and you will be treated well.” 

“See, we’ll be well treated. Stop being stubborn. It’s time to yield,” Tyrion said, raising his hands and attempting to walk into the clearing, but Ser Jorah grabbed him by the arm and jerked him back down.

“The Others can yield,” Mormont muttered. “I’m not going back there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Penny is not a dwarf in this story.
> 
> And fun fact for those who missed it, Cerwyn makes his first appearance in the chapter entitled "12. Winter Ball." There's a bad history between the two.


	53. Chapter 33 - Daenerys - May 1304 AC

**Chapter 33 - Daenerys - May 1304 AC**

Daenerys lowered her head against the pelting rain and focused on putting one foot in front of another.  _ Left. Right. Left. Right. _ She was hungry, cold, sick, and in pain... and though she would never, ever admit it aloud, she was so, so scared. 

Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave the relative shelter of her downed helicopter to set out into the countryside where she’d become like a needle in a haystack to the rescue parties that surely searched for her. But she had hit her head against the control panel when she’d crash-landed and had been dazed, and without putting much thought into it, she’d wandered away. Though when she had thought about it more hours later and had nearly tried to find her way back to the chopper, she realized there was a chance the Lannisters had seen her go down and would be searching for a pilot, too. So she walked on in a direction that she hoped was northeast towards the coast and her own lines though with the clouds and the rain and her own dazed and ill state, she may have been walking in circles. It had been at least two days now, and still, she wandered putting one foot in front of another because she didn’t know what else to do. 

She shouldn’t have taken to the sky on such an overcast day with the threat of storms looming. She’d promised Ser Jorah once, long ago, that she’d only fly on clear days, and that she’d not fly alone. But what were promises to a ghost? She had  _ needed _ to fly the morning she’d taken off, as much as she needed to eat or drink or breathe. She found peace and solace in her helicopter, and freedom too, and she’d wanted to be alone with her thoughts up in the heavens. A Queen had so many worries and so many advisors pulling her in all directions. How was she to  _ think  _ if she never had a moment to herself?

\--- 

She was twice a widow now. Daario Naahris and his men had made it to the Dornish crash site and returned to Dragonstone with the body of her husband. 

“You won’t want to see him, my Queen,” Daario had said, sure of himself and his role as a gallant protector, and more. “The plane turned into a fireball. The body is… not a sight for a lady’s eyes.”

“I will see him,” she said firmly. She was not some innocent maiden. She had seen men burned alive before. She had  _ ordered _ men burned alive. 

Quentyn was burnt beyond recognition, but he was identifiable by his rings- a golden sunspear adorned with rubies on his right hand and the wedding ring that Daenerys had placed on his left hand only months before. The bodies of two of Quentyn’s friends and sworn knights, Ser Cletus Yronwood and Ser William Wells, were identified as well. Ser Archibald Yronwood, another of his knights, was found with a broken neck, his parachute tangled in a tree. The rest were so burnt that no one could be certain who they were.

“I thought you said there were several parachutes deployed,” she said to Daario, who looked slightly too pleased with himself for the somber situation. 

“One of my men thought he saw two or three though I did not see them myself. If anyone else did jump, we did not find him or his chute, my Queen,” he replied with a shrug. She thought she might drown in the depths of his eyes. 

She supposed she should have wept, but she’d felt nothing as she looked at her husband’s blackened body… nothing but relief. She’d loved Robb, and she hadn’t spared him a tear when she’d learned of his demise. Quentyn had been a duty and an annoyance and innocent, an obedient son doing his father’s wishes, an ambitious boy hoping to be King or at least the father of one. She felt no sorrow. Instead, she felt an itch desperate to be scratched as she forced her gaze away from Daario’s sparkling eyes. 

She’d set up a call with Prince Doran, who had been furious and grief-stricken, as any father would be.

“How did they know to shoot down one, small, unmarked plane? You sent him on a defenseless plane with no fighter escort? Someone must have tipped off the Lannisters,” he’d contradicted himself in anger over the phone, all but accusing her of plotting his own death. 

She’d been too angry to speak for a moment, leaving Ser Barristan to try to calm the Lord of Dorne who’d then hinted that perhaps she could smooth things over by marrying his youngest son, Trystane. 

“Send my boy home to Dorne, where he belongs,” Prince Doran had finished before daring to slam down the phone on his Queen.

She had the bodies packed on ice and shipped them off to Dorne with all the solemn pomp required of a Prince’s funeral. Then she’d waited one more day before sending word to Daario that she would see him in her chambers. She had kept her marriage vows, even if her husband hadn’t. But now she was free and she had missed the feelings that Daario drew out of her. She had  _ fun _ with Daario. She couldn’t remember another time in her whole life when she could say that.

“Next he’ll demand that I marry his daughter,” Daenerys had complained to Daario that night. He’d only laughed as he’d brushed his hand over her bare breasts. “I’ll not marry that boy,” she’d finished with a huff.

“I suppose Ser Grandfather thinks you should consider it.  _ He is a fine young man from an ancient and noble house. He would make a suitable match _ ,” Daario said, doing his best imitation of Ser Barristan.

“That isn’t kind,” she scolded with a laugh. Daario could always make her laugh. He wasn’t brooding and somber and serious all the time like so many of the other men around her.  _ Like Ser Jorah _ , a voice whispered before she brushed it aside.

“You are a kind Queen,” Daario said with a shrug. “I am not a kind sellsword. I kill men for a living. Perhaps you prefer soft boys.” 

“You mustn’t be jealous.” She spoke those words to Daario, not the knight who had betrayed her. 

“ _ Jealous _ ? Of what? Has either of your husbands made love to you as I have? Your next young Prince will be jealous because you will always come back to me when he leaves you unsatisfied.”

She tried to scowl because she did not like the slight to Robb, but then he tickled her and she couldn’t help but laugh again. 

“I will keep my vows, Daario, even if I miss you. A Queen must keep her word.”

“And I will keep mine. I swore my sword and heart to you. My life, my body, my blood, you own them all. I live and die at your command, my fair Queen.”

“I prefer you live. But is there no one else?” she asked, suddenly curious about what he had done when she’d set him aside for Quentyn. “You boasted to me once that you had a hundred women before and pleased them all.”

“A hundred? I lied, sweet Queen. It was a thousand, but never once a dragon. And now that I’ve had the dragon, all other women pale in comparison. There is no one else, nor will there ever be. I told you, I am yours. Perhaps you should simply marry me.” She’d laughed again at, and he with her, at the absurdity of his proposal as they’d tumbled back into the sheets. But he made her feel  _ good _ . 

She was a Queen, and Daario was not the stuff of Kings or even Princes. She could never marry him, she wasn’t even sure she’d want to marry him, but she would enjoy his charm, his smooth, lean, hard body, his handsome face, and his mustache which tickled her so while she could.

But she could not stay in bed with him all day, and her renewed attention had made him even more difficult with her other advisors, and truthfully, with her too. He seemed to view her orders as suggestions and those of her other advisors who outranked him as less than that. Lord Darry loathed him, and the normally mild mannered Ser Barristan had grown red faced with anger when Daario had dared to kiss her in front of much of her court. 

“His lack of discipline is dangerous, Your Grace,” he’d felt the need to comment, though he’d said no more.

Even stoic Grey did not like him. “He is a braggart, my Queen, and a poison,” he’d said gravely when she’d asked him his opinion of Daario. She’d raised an eyebrow at Missandei, but her friend had only shrugged.

Perhaps she clung to Daario and the fun distraction that he brought her because very little else had gone well in recent months. 

Uprisings continued in the Riverlands, and only increased when a massacre occurred near Saltpans. Enemy propagandists claimed her troops had done it, though every unit in the area denied it. It must have been brigands, one of her colonels told her. But when she’d visited the city herself under heavy guard and spoken personally to civilians, they’d described well armed soldiers, not a ragtag band of outlaws. She’d ordered patrols in the area doubled and then tripled, but unrest continued, and no well armed brigand company was found. Daario suggested that maybe troops from the Vale had done it to turn the population against her before slipping back into the mountains. 

She’d sent Grey’s second in command, Colonel Stalwart Sumby, to Meereen to take command of the situation there and to represent her interests. He’d been assassinated at a dinner party with local officials within a week. Hizdahr zo Loraq swore that he would hunt down those responsible, but he would need more men to do it. She’d instead sent orders for her troops to withdraw from the city and hold at a single base near Meereen’s western oil fields. She was tempted to withdraw them entirely, but the expedition had already cost her hundreds of casualties, not to mention massive amounts of equipment and transport costs. She did not want it to all have been done in vain. She was tempted to have her troops seize the oil fields in her name, though she could ill afford all out war with Meereen at the moment.

Meanwhile, the Dornish offensive had stalled well short of Oldtown. She wondered if it was intentional in an effort to force another Targaryen/Martell wedding. Either way, she still needed oil and more allies if she was ever to win back her throne.

There was one overwhelming victory against the Lannisters on the Goldroad a week ago that had lifted her spirits, but then, the very morning of her ill fated flight, Irri and Missandei had come to her. Daenerys was sipping tea, feeling slightly under the weather, which was very unusual for her. Both of her friends looked solemn but determined as they sat when she invited them to join her. 

“What is it?” she said at last when neither girl spoke at first. She was irritated, though at what, she wasn’t certain.

“Khaleesi,” Irri said, “I am honored by your friendship. And Missi and I spoke, and we both would want you to do the same if the situation were reversed because it is what friends do.”

She glanced at Missandei in confusion. 

“You are very fond of Daario, aren’t you Daenerys?” Missandei asked carefully. 

“I enjoy his company,” Daenerys said defensively. 

“Has there been any discussion of exclusivity?”

“He knows I will likely marry again, but he has sworn me his heart and his body and his life. I appreciate his loyalty.”

Irri snorted.

“He has not been entirely honest with you, Your Grace,” Missandei said more diplomatically.

“It is known,” Irri added.

“Speak plainly,” Daenerys said sharply. “What is this about?”

“He has been spotted in brothels in Rook’s Rest, Maidenpool, and Saltpans. As recently as two days ago.”

Daenerys felt as if she’d been slapped, but she quickly regained her composure.

“By whom? By some Lordling who is jealous of the favor I’ve granted to someone more lowborn? You should not indulge such vile gossip.”

Missandei looked chastened for a moment, but then she handed her a stack of photographs.

Daenerys flipped through only a few before having seen enough and handing them back. It hurt. She would not show it. She would not admit it. But the sight of Daario in various states of undress with other women, with  _ whores _ , felt like a stab in the heart. 

She should have known better, she told herself as she fought to hold back tears. It was a fling, nothing more, so why did she want to cry?

“Who gave those to you?” she asked angrily, her suppressed tears turning to molten lava of anger within her. She already knew the answer.

“Lord Varys gave them to Ser Barristan who asked that we speak to you about it,” Missandei said quietly.

“We came to you as friends, Khaleesi. So that you might know what type of man he is. Rakharo will kill him if you desire it,” Irri said, angry on Daenerys’ behalf.

“No… that’s quite alright. It is just a fling, Daario and me. He is not important to me in that way. He is valuable as a soldier, and he is fun. That is all. Thank you for telling me. You may go.”

“Do you need anything, Daenerys?” Missandei asked sympathetically. 

“No. I am fine. Truly. But please tell Lord Varys to come see me in an hour.” She would need an hour to compose herself

Lord Varys was in her employ now which she supposed should have been considered a victory. He had shown up rather unexpectedly several weeks before when she’d all but given up on him and Tyrion.

“What took you so long, my Lord? Your presence was expected months ago,” she asked him when she had him brought to her solar on the day of his arrival. Grey, Missandei, and Ser Barristan were present. She did not trust him. 

“I would have been here months ago, Your Grace, but unfortunately, I was sidetracked in my search for Lord Tyrion, and it has been a long and difficult journey to get here.” Despite this journey, the Spider was impeccably dressed in one of the silk smoking jackets that he favored.

“I expected Tyrion with you as well. Where is he?”

“I’m afraid I cannot be certain. As you know, our mutual friend is rather social, and he grew so very melancholy cooped up in our safehouse. Unbeknownst to me, he snuck out one night, apparently to go to a bar… or more accurately, a brothel. And then he vanished. He was last seen being escorted from the premise of a brothel near Ramsgate- that’s a small city in the North- at gunpoint by a large, bearded man, and none of my little birds have seen him since. Unfortunately, much of my northern network died with Ned Stark, so I am still rebuilding in that region. There are rumors of a dwarf being held by Ramsey Bolton, but I have not been able to confirm that it is Tyrion. I think it is just as likely that he was executed the night he was taken. If that is true, it would be a terrible loss.”

“Indeed.” It was disappointing. Tyrion could annoy her to no ends at times, but he had a very keen political mind which she appreciated. “It is a terrible loss for you as well because he was to vouch for you. Explain yourself, Lord Varys. You spied on me. You conspired to have me killed. And now you expect me to welcome you with open arms?”

“Oh, I do not deny that I spied on you, and I do not deny that I conspired to have your father killed. That was necessary for the good of the realm. I know it must still be painful, but he was mad. He would have killed thousands of innocents simply because his paranoid mind told him they meant him harm. But I had little to do with your brother, though he was mad too, and I never intended any harm to come to you at all.”

She knew her father and brother were mad, but it  _ did _ still hurt. Her father had never shown any particular love to her, and Ser Barristan had told her how cruel he’d been to her mother, but he was still her family. And Viserys- well, Viserys was complicated. 

“Men tried to kill me in Blackhaven,” she insisted. “Men sent by you.”

“They were sent by Robert, but they were never meant to kill you. The wheels were already turning for your father to be assassinated. There was nothing I could do to stop it. So it was of the utmost importance to get you to safety. The Lannisters wanted you dead, but Ned Stark and I had convinced Robert to spare you,” he told her smoothly.

“Those men were meant to transport you unharmed to Pentos, where you would have been in the care of your father’s friend Illyrio Mopatis. Robert thought he would force you to abdicate the throne, thus legitimizing his own claim, while also showing himself to be reasonable and merciful by sparing an innocent girl. I intended for you to be safe there until you could raise a large enough army to win back the throne. In the meantime, I would work to ensure that you had the allies you needed when you came back. Unfortunately, Ser Jorah was rather overzealous, failing to play his part, and thus spoiled the whole operation.”

Her mind whirled. What he was saying couldn’t possibly have been true. Why had they needed so many guns? Why had they taken Missandei?

“They shot at me. They would have killed me if not for J- for my guards!”

“The final agreement was to take you peacefully and alive if possible. And that is exactly what would have happened if not for Ser Jorah. Unfortunately, some of the men panicked. I wasn’t able to handpick all of them due to complications with the Lannisters, and they were not as well trained as they should have been. But Ser Jorah started the fight, and they responded in self-defense. I am terribly sorry for the fright it must have given you. But you must believe me when I say I had your best interests at heart. It all worked out in the end I suppose, but you would have had a much more comfortable journey to Pentos than your foot march to Stony Sept ended up being.”

She tried to remember the details of the chaos of that day. Had Ser Jorah started the fight? She didn’t even remember him drawing his gun until bullets whistled all around her, but perhaps she had been in shock. She did recall he’d punched a man before she’d sensed any danger at all. Perhaps he’d shot someone as well. There were so many things that didn’t quite add up, but she didn’t want to dwell on Jorah… she didn’t want to think of him at all. 

“Assuming what you say is true, why do you support me?”

“Robert would have been a better King than your father. Ned Stark too. Stannis would have been adequate. But birthright aside, you have proven yourself to be by far the most capable monarch of those who remain. As I told you before, I serve the realm, and the realm needs someone like you. I certainly understand your hesitation. Perhaps I could share some intelligence with you now to win your trust.” 

_ Trust _ , she thought,  _ I don’t think I’ll ever trust him. Even his voice is slippery. Jorah had called him a snake once... _

“Tell me,” she said instead. 

“I know that Yara Greyjoy would be amicable to bending the knee to you in exchange for your support for her claim to the Iron Islands. I know that Mace Tyrell thinks he stands to gain from siding with the Lannister, but Lady Olenna truly controls Highgarden, and she is quite disgusted with the lot of them. I know that Hizdahr Zo Loraq has no intention of ever delivering the oil he promised you. And I know that within a fortnight, there will be a lightly defended convoy of oil tankers, weapons, and other supplies making its way up the Goldroad to King’s Landing.” 

In the end, she’d agreed with Ser Barristan. It was better to have Varys on her side than against her. She wouldn’t trust him fully, but she would use his knowledge and his network to her advantage. So she allowed him to join her court on a probationary basis. 

And use it she did, winning a crushing victory over the Lannisters when her forces had ambushed their supply convoy on the Goldroad, destroying or capturing all of the supplies and inflicting thousands of casualties on her enemy with very light losses on her own side. She’d even ungrounded some of her fighter planes for the battle, and they’d left a trail of burning trucks, tankers, and humvees that was several miles long.

She had itched to get involved in the battle herself, but as a compromise, her helicopter stayed high overhead, eyes in the sky to direct her ground troops who had performed magnificently. And just as she’d done at Harrenhal, she’d offered amnesty to the common foot soldiers who’d agree to join her forces. Nearly every last one of them agreed to take up her offer, especially after she’d executed a few of their highest ranking officers. 

It was one of few bright spots in an otherwise miserable year, and she had thanked Lord Varys for his service afterward. 

But then just days later, he had delivered devastating news in the form of a stack of photos. 

“Why were you spying on Daario?” she asked him angrily the moment he entered her solar that morning.

He paused but did not seem at all surprised by the question. “Your enemies spy on all those who are close to you. It is better that you find out their flaws first, or your enemies will use it against you,” the Spider said calmly in his silky voice.

“You think he’s not worthy of me?”

“Indeed, he is not, but it doesn’t matter what I think. It  _ would _ matter if someone else had taken those photos and given them to the Lannisters. They would have painted a very unflattering picture of you with them to turn the people against you.”

“What does Daario’s…  _ behavior _ have to do with me?” she spat.

“It has everything to do with you since your relationship with him is no great secret. I understand he has kissed you publicly-”

“Kings keep mistresses all the time. We do not have a  _ relationship _ !”

“I think you know that Kings and Queens are held to different standards, but even so, a King would expect his mistresses to be exclusive to him lest the people think him a cuckold. If the people believe that you share a bed with a man who brazenly associates with whores, they may come to think that you are- well, never mind, but I think you get the picture.”

“Are you calling me a whore, Lord Varys?” Her voice sounded like ice.

“I would never, Your Grace. But Cersei will.”

She’d felt sick. Angry, near tears, and desperate to escape, she’d ordered her helicopter made ready. She’d disregarded the clouds and the threat of storms. She’d disregarded the safety protocols she’d agreed upon with Ser Jorah, to always take a co-pilot and a gunner, because she’d wanted to be alone. 

And she’d soared through the sky, free for a time before she began to suspect that she was really was ill, and then the clouds thickened and rain began to fall and she’d become disoriented. She supposed she was lucky she hadn’t died. Instead, she’d crash landed in an open field somewhere between the towns of Duskendale and Antlers. She’d hit her head and sprained her wrist and then wandered away from the crash site in a slight daze. 

Surely, they were looking for her. Surely, as soon as they lost radio contact, they would have sent out search parties. Surely, Ser Barristan would know to override her own orders and unground every plane and send out helicopters despite the weather. Surely, they would find her soon - Ser Barristan, Lord Darry, Rhakaro, Grey and Lord Varys… and Daario. They would find her. 

She crossed a deserted, pothole marred road and saw a sign for Rook’s Rest, 60 miles away. So far… She was truly sick now on top of dazed and hungry. Her teeth chattered and she was racked with chills. Her stool had turned nearly to water. And she bled… she bled and bled and bled for the first time since she’d lost her son, and the bleeding was accompanied by cramping and then vomiting. She could not possibly walk so far, not all alone, not in her current condition. She stumbled to a rock beneath a tree that partially shielded her from the downpour and sat down, closing her eyes. She would rest for just a moment.

Her brother had died near Rook’s Rest, she recalled suddenly. 

When she opened her eyes, her brother stood before her, untouched by the rain, as haughty as ever.  _ I didn’t simply die, Dany. I was murdered _ , he said.  _ And you did not cry for me. _

“Because you were cruel to me. I loved you once, but then you went mad and all you did was frighten me.”

_ I was only cruel when you deserved it, when you woke the dragon. I loved you too. You should have been my wife. Father never should have done away with our traditions. Instead, you sullied yourself with a wolf and a viper and Tyroshi trash, you whore _ . _ And now you try to steal my throne. _

“No, you are dead, it is my throne now” she shouted, closing her eyes against the vision, though her voice came out a whisper. _ He’s weak and a liar. I have to keep walking.  _ And when she opened her eyes, he was gone. She pushed herself to her feet and continued on her way.  _ I will not look back. If I look back, I am lost. He cannot frighten me anymore. _

_ Never, _ whispered the wind behind her, in the gruff but gentle tones of Jorah Mormont.  _ I said you were the bravest woman I have ever known, and I meant it _ . 

Daenerys fought the urge to turn around then, to hug her sweet bear who had loved her and betrayed her, and to bury her face in his strong chest, to feel safe in his arms. But she told herself it was a feverish dream, and she was truly alone.

_ Alone because you sent me from your side _ , murmured Ser Jorah sadly and as softly as a gentle breeze.  _ I would never have abandoned you. _

“You betrayed me,” she told the wind. “You informed on me for money.”

_ For home. Home was all I ever wanted. _

“And me. You wanted me. I saw it in your eyes.”

_ I did, _ the wind agreed sadly.

“You were too familiar, too presumptuous. You had no right to want me or to betray me. I was your Queen.”

_ I gave you good counsel. I said no good could come from Meereen nor from marrying yourself to Dorne. I told you Daario was not to be trusted. I warned you there were spies everywhere. I told you to take care when you flew. But you would not listen.  _

“It is such a long, hard way to the throne, Jorah. I am tired and so weary of war. I am still just a young girl. I cannot be perfect and strong all of the time. I need to rest.”

_ No, you are a Queen, the blood of the dragon. You must be their strength. _

“As you were once mine, but no longer.”

She slipped and stumbled on a loose rock then, falling to one knee, and she hoped against hope that Ser Jorah would gather her up and pull her close to him, protecting her as he always had, but when she looked back, all she saw was wind and rain and an open field. 

And in the distance, she saw a line of trucks barreling down the road towards her.


End file.
